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hueseok · 1 month ago

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it was always you (from the vault)

originally titled: take my breath away.

a.k.a. the original draft for my “it was always you” fic wherein naval aviator!jungkook is your cocky soon-to-be-ex-husband who won’t sign your divorce papers because he’s still in love with you lol.

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 4.5k

content: fluff, semi-angst, exes to ??? | ft. naval aviator!jungkook + husband!jungkook

warning: what you’re about to read (if you do choose to read this) is an unfinished work which perhaps will forever be unfinished.

the only reason i’m posting it because i feel like it’d be a waste to let it rot in my drafts considering that i really liked how it went until the moment i stopped writing hehehehe. i’ve also thought about continuing this story but since i already have an existing naval aviator!jungkook in my masterlist, i felt like it’d be redundant to post this!

anyhow, since a lot of you showed so much love to “it was always you”, i thought it’d be nice to share this 🥹

You really hoped that flying for almost three hours and experiencing horrid turbulence during half of the trip was going to be worth it. But again, that was only the first part of the whole charade; the real challenge would begin perhaps much later, when you finally come face to face with the person that you were scheduled to meet.

As you walked inside the bar, the nerves that previously weren’t there started to crawl from your chest to your legs, making it harder to reach the counter where a vacant bar stool stood. You didn’t even know why you were suddenly nervous—although you could only guess that the sudden burst of anxiety was rooted from talking again to the most stubborn man ever to walk on earth—and you were already preparing yourself for the long conversation you were going to have with him and possibly the extended leave you’ll have to inform your boss for this trip because of his infamous stubbornness.

“____?” a familiar voice abruptly called out for you after you finished ordering a mug of beer from the barmaid, “no fucking way. It can’t be.”

You turned to your left and saw Jung Hoseok.

Spoiler: he wasn’t the person you were going to meet today, which made seeing him such a delight. You grinned immediately upon making eye contact, hopping out of your chair and exclaiming his name with the same enthusiasm he let out when he did realize it was you who he was looking at.

“Holy shit. What are you doing here?” He automatically engulfed you in a tight embrace when you initiated. You noticed that he was wearing an off duty attire, a plain black polo shirt and blue jeans, his hair kept neat and short. “Actually, scratch that—there’s only one person you should be here for.”

You bothered to smile. “Yeah. I’m guessing he didn’t tell anyone I’m visiting, huh?”

“Nope. He 100% kept it a secret because he knows that we’re going to steal you away if he spills.”

“We?” you mused. You didn’t even know that he was training with Hoseok, and now you’re discovering that Hoseok’s apparently not the only friend he has here. “How many of you that I know are training with him?”

Hoseok takes a short pause to think about it. “Hm… well, there’s me, then Yoongi and… Namjoon. That’s just about it.”

“Wow. It’s essentially the whole group again, huh?”

“Yup. I mean, we are the best of the best.” He smirked.

You playfully rolled your eyes.

“And we’ve missed you,” he added swiftly. “I’m a bit mad that your husband didn’t inform us that you’d be here—but again, I’m not surprised.”

“Sorry. I think I have myself to blame for that. I did tell him that I don’t intend to stay here for too long.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just here to make sure he signs the divorce papers.”

Hoseok nodded, thoughtful and a bit disappointed. “Is he giving you a hard time with them?”

“You can say that.” A dramatic sigh escaped you. “He insisted that if I really wanted to get his signature, I should just go here where he’s training.”

“Classic Jungkook.” He laughed, and you agreed with a snort.

He was right, this was all a Classic Jungkook move.

Sometimes, you didn’t understand why you agreed to marry Jungkook so urgently when he asked for your hand, even after knowing that he did everything he could to ensure that he got what he wanted in the end.

Though that was just that thing, wasn’t it? He knew exactly what to do in order to get what he wanted—and at that time of his proposal, you knew it was you that he sought for.

Despite the fact that Jungkook had only been seeing you for less than a year, he was convinced that you were the love of his life. It was the reason why when he needed to be deployed for a mission, it seemed proposing was the most natural thing to do, going on about how he wanted to be reassured that when he came back for you, you were going to be there waiting for him, not only as a girlfriend, but as his wife.

And you said yes, without missing a beat, because you genuinely loved Jungkook and for you, the both of you were a match made in heaven.

By the two year mark of being a wedded couple though, just being in love with each other wasn’t enough. There were a lot of arguments, irreconcilable differences, a lot of moments wherein you wanted to abandon everything and just disappear��until you finally declared that enough was enough and you were going to file for divorce.

Of course, Jungkook didn’t want to sign them, but he did grant you a little bit of your freedom back. He did so by leaving your shared apartment on a random Thursday, only sending a text that said he was being called by the Navy for a mission he couldn’t disclose per usual, and that if you really wanted to divorce him, you’d just have to wait for him to go back.

He never returned though. Because after that mission, came a next one, and another one, until you heard that he was invited to a naval fighter weapons school in the northern part of the country, close to the seas and where he’ll be training for a few weeks among the best naval aviators in the nation.

That’s when he decided to invite you over and say that if you wanted his signature, you’d have to be the one who’ll go to him. You initially contemplated for a long time before just going forth with his ridiculous demand. Nonetheless, you figured you were once again left with no choice because here you were now, doing exactly what he wanted to get what you exactly wanted as well.

God, who knew that contrary to how easy it was to enter this marriage, it was an absolute pain to get out of it?

“Do you know where he might be?” you asked Hoseok while taking a sip of your beer. “Or if he’s going here at least?”

“I have no clue,” Hoseok said. “Though I do know that he should have free time. We don’t have training for the rest of the day.”

“I’ll be seriously pissed if he stands me up.”

“He won’t.”

“It’s Jungkook.”

“Yeah, but you’re ____,” he said it like it was reason enough, “and Jungkook can’t resist seeing you. Especially if it’s been what? How many months have passed since you two saw each other?”

You held up six fingers, continuing to gulp down your drink in frustration. “Still, he loves to annoy the shit out of me.”

“It’s his love language.”

“Oh, I’ve been made very aware.”

Hoseok barked out a laugh. He was a huge fan of your dynamic with Jungkook; he was practically there throughout the whole journey of your relationship. As Jungkook’s weapon systems officer, the both of them were thick as thieves, which also made him the best man of the wedding—so deep inside, he wanted to believe that whatever it was that you and Jungkook were dealing with, it would be resolved soon enough.

“Well, it looks like you don’t have to wait for too long.” Hoseok toasted his glass to the direction of the entrance where the Jeon Jungkook entered, removing his aviator sunglasses and hooking it on the collar of his white shirt, worn inside a dark blue long-sleeved polo he was sporting as well.

You followed his line of vision and scowled at the sight of Jungkook. Not because you hated your husband, but because even when in the middle of finalizing a divorce, you couldn’t deny that he was too handsome for his own good.

“I think this is my cue to leave,” Hoseok added, getting off his seat. “It was nice seeing you again, ___. Let’s catch up later, yeah? I’ll conspire with Joon and Yoongi to steal you away.” He smiled mischievously and gave you a sweet chaste kiss on the cheek before walking over to Jungkook, greeting him, pointing to where you were, and then walking to another table where you guessed a bunch of other naval aviators were hanging out.

A sigh escaped you, just in time when Jungkook met your gaze.

He grinned—actually grinned—and you had to prevent your eyes from twitching to not look like some crazy person who didn’t have any self-control. So, instead of plastering the same scowl a few seconds ago for him to see, you flashed a sarcastic smile, waving your hand.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” Jungkook claimed when he was close enough, marching towards you, appearing like he was going to go for a kiss but before he could, you outstretched an arm and stopped him by literally wrapping your fingers around his neck as if you were planning to choke him to death with the gesture (which you were tempted to do).

He rolled his eyes, holding your wrist and bringing it down.

“Can’t I give you a kiss?” he retorted.

“No.”

“And Hoseok can?”

“Hoseok’s my friend.”

“I’m your husband.”

“Ex-husband.”

“Wrong. I haven’t signed any divorce papers, honey, so in the eyes of the law, I’m still very much your husband.” He quickly stole a kiss on the corner of your mouth and you allowed yourself to grimace in annoyance, glaring at him as he took Hoseok’s previous seat.

You watched him order a drink for himself and nachos for sharing. You didn’t say anything while he did all that; you just stared at him, analyzing him, trying to decipher what was going on in that head of his. You honestly had no clue what his thought process was in depriving you of the signature you wanted and then randomly agreeing to meet you again, accompanied with the condition that you’re the one who has to go to him and not the other way around.

As he reasoned, he was still in the middle of training, and he couldn’t just leave even if he wanted to and that’s why you had to make the effort to make this work (he made it clear that he didn’t want to make the effort anyway if it meant it could lead to his and yours divorce).

“How are you?” he asked once he was done ordering and you scoffed.

“Let’s not do that, Jungkook.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that I’m not allowed to know how you’re doing too.”

“I meant the small talk. Let’s just cut to the chase.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Jungkook.”

“Alright.” He placed an arm against the counter, spinning his stool to face you. “You already know where I stand, though. I still haven’t changed my mind in wanting to work it out first.”

“What? But you told me that if I went here—”

“I would talk to you, not sign the papers,” he finished. “You didn’t really think I’d sign them just like that, right?”

Your stomach dropped.

There goes assuming that the three-hour flight to go here would be worth it.

“I did, actually.” You grumbled. “When are you giving this a rest?”

He seemed annoyed by the rhetoric question. “When are you going to stop thinking that divorce is the answer to our problem?”

“We already did couple’s therapy and that proved to be a waste of time.”

“That’s because you were stubborn and wouldn’t cooperate.”

“Oh, I’m the one who’s stubborn between the both of us? I’m the one who wouldn’t cooperate?”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not!” You raised your hands up. “You were the one who always said some lame excuse to not attend it with me.”

“Babe, how many times do I have to tell you, my schedule isn’t—”

“Yeah, whatever.” You didn’t let him finish, knowing that he was going to say something about how being in the Navy didn’t grant him the free time you were expecting him to have.

“I’m just saying… you can’t keep on doing this, you know?” you said.

“Can’t keep doing what?”

“Prolonging this. We already broke up, Jungkook. There’s not point in staying married.”

“That’s the thing, though.” He smirked. “I can keep prolonging it.”

Your nostrils flared. “Why?”

“Because I can.”

You think flashes of red were beginning to blur your vision.

Jungkook noticed the rage building up, yet he didn’t back down. “Why are you even so eager to legally separate? Do you plan on getting married again soon?” he asked.

It was supposed to be a joke, because Jungkook didn’t actually think you were seeing anyone at the moment—but at the mention of it, he saw the manner in which your expression slightly shifted, and he narrowed his eyes at you, understanding. “Don’t bullshit me. You aren’t seeing anyone, right?”

You blinked, acting all innocent. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is. You’re still married to me.”

“We’ve broken up for almost a year now, Jungkook.” You groaned, remaining him once again. “If you just signed the goddamn papers, all of this would be out of your hands.”

He scoffed. “You are seeing someone?”

“That is not the point of our conversation.”

“Well, it’s a significant aspect of it.”

“Fine.” You huffed. “I am seeing someone. Happy?”

Jungkook was in fact not happy. He was angry, but then he thought of how he shouldn’t be, because you and him have broken up for almost a year now like you said. Even though he wasn’t in support of that notion, he remembered at least granting you enough freedom to feel like you could date around without thinking about how you were technically cheating on him if ever you did.

However, he didn’t really think you would find someone. Sure, you were beautiful, you had an amazing personality, there was no question when it came to you attracting men, yet you could be picky most of the time. It was even a miracle how he managed to bag you; though he guessed that he didn’t really have to try that hard in the first place before because the two of you just had so much in common for you to ignore.

“What’s his name?” he asked after a long silence.

You crossed your arms. “Do you have to know?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” You adjusted yourself in your seat. “It’s Ben.”

Jungkook thought the name sounded stupid. “How long have you been dating him?”

You hesitated, already predicting how he was going to react that you almost exaggerated the answer, but decided against it last minute. “Five weeks.”

He suddenly burst out laughing, the sound echoing inside the bar; it was the exact type of response you were positive he was going to do, proof that you knew him too well and that you shouldn’t have changed your pretense in the first place.

“It’s not funny,” you hissed, noticing that a lot of people were glancing at where you were both situated. “What the hell is funny about what I said?”

“You want to divorce me for a guy you’ve been dating for five weeks?” He carried on snickering; he barely got the whole sentence out because he was too busy catching his breath.

“Of course not! I would just prefer it if I don’t have any baggage left before attempting to commit to another relationship.”

The barmaid came back with Jungkook’s beer and nachos. He thanked her and slid the basket of cheesy nachos to your direction, an offer that you could get a piece if you wanted. However you were neither hungry nor interested in getting anything from him that would elicit a thank you from you, too prideful at this point due to how annoying he was being.

“What does he do for a living?” he asked next.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to make fun of it.”

“Is it worth making fun of?”

“No.”

“Then just tell me.” He threw a chip inside his mouth.

You pressed your lips together. “He’s a bank clerk.”

Jungkook didn’t laugh this time, but the corners of his mouth were twitching as he grinned, and you found yourself refraining from wanting to strangle him again, questioning why you thought it was a good idea to come here since it was obvious that talking to him properly was an impossible task.

“You’re dating a bank clerk?” he posed the question like it was the most preposterous thing he had heard from you today. “What the hell do the both of you have in common?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll have you know that Ben is a very nice guy.”

“That’s what ladies say when a man is horrible in bed.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is he good then?”

“That’s none of your business, Jungkook,” you uttered once more, teeth gritting. “Besides, it’s only been five weeks.”

He smirked. “That’s a no then. It seems that you haven’t slept with him,” he said. “Makes sense. I mean, if you have already slept with another guy, you might be already begging me to get back together. Given that I’m the best sex you’ve ever had.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “How the fuck are you always so arrogant?”

“It comes with the praise I usually get during my escapades, babe.” Jungkook winked at you, hand reaching out for another nacho.

“Oh, so I’m assuming you do have sex with other people now. You know, if you’ve just divorced me, you can go live your happy single life again to go to that without any worries.”

“I don’t sleep with other people—”

“But you just said—”

“I meant before I met you.” He pointed out, giving you a look. “Why are you even thinking about that? Are you jealous?”

“God, you’re fucking impossible.” You practically growled.

He flashed you another smirk, amused.

“Anyhow,” you began, bringing out the divorce papers from your bag that you should have given him the second you saw him, but as what you think was part of his plan, he did manage to stall you in doing so, “here’s the papers.” You shoved it to his chest, rendering Jungkook no choice but to grab it.

He glanced down at them. “You’re never going to stop until I sign these, huh?”

You nodded. “Never.”

“Fine.” Jungkook flickered his gaze on you. “I’ll sign them.”

You glared at him. “Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Are you?”

You were still suspicious, but at the same time, you had high hopes.

“Yes. But I need to meet Ben the bank clerk first.”

Your spirits dropped. “Oh, no, no, no,” you made a huge cross sign with your arms, “you are not giving me another condition just to go against your word in the end.”

“I won’t this time.”

“Yeah, right.” You scoffed loudly.

It was his turn to narrow his eyes at you. “I’m serious. You want my signature or not?”

You bit the insides of your cheeks, gazing at him.

You were no fool, you knew why he wanted to meet him; you knew that it was because he wanted to see it for himself if the guy you replaced him for was actually more good looking than him or at least appeared as if he could survive a fistfight if Jungkook prompted to start one. It was all testosterone and ego, and you contemplated cutting his balls just to get this over with once and for all.

Surely, by then, he would be more agreeable.

“Fine,” you told him. “If you meet him, you’ll sign the papers? Promise?”

He took a sip of his beer, shrugging. “Sure.”

***

Jungkook watched the scene unfold in front of him with an amused expression.

Although he did admit it once that he did get a bit jealous whenever you gave the other guys more attention than him, he loved his best pals too much to care.

It was why he allowed instances like this to happen wherein you made it apparent that you valued their company much more than you did Jungkook. It was evident in the manner in which you laughed loudly as Hoseok, Yoongi, and Namjoon hugged you, each one of them taking turns in lifting your body off the ground a few seconds in glee.

You were seen as a beloved sister to them as they saw Jungkook as a cherished brother in the Navy.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jungkook reckoned after five seconds.

Namjoon glanced at him, the last one to embrace you. “Jealous?” he teased, reading his mind.

“I am, actually.” Jungkook affirmed. “You three got a better greeting than I did.”

You rolled your eyes at the pettiness of his comment. “That’s because there’s nothing good about seeing you again, Jungkook.”

Jungkook glanced at you. “You wound me, babe.” He placed a dramatic hand on his chest. “Truly, you do.”

The guys stifled a laugh.

Today’s agenda was supposed to be a catch up session with the three guys. News spread quickly yesterday that you were in town thanks to Hoseok, and given that the three of them were good friends of yours, you didn’t decline the offer when Jungkook informed you that they wanted to meet you while you were here.

So, as the next day came in and the evening rolled, they met up with you at the same resto-bar Hoseok found you in. It did seem like the only venue that was both near enough from the academy and the hotel you were staying at that offered adequate food. You observed that the occupants of the place were composed primarily of people wearing naval aviator uniforms or motorcyclists stopping by before going forth with their ride.

“So,” Yoongi began just as Jungkook headed to the counter, volunteering to relay all of your orders to the barmaid, “we heard from a little birdie that you’re seeing someone else.”

You gave him a look. “Still a big gossip, I see.”

“Oh, it’s not counted as gossip if it’s what Jungkook’s been complaining about the whole time at the showers,” Namjoon humored.

Hoseok agreed with a nod. “It’s what he’s been nonstop yapping about earlier when we were flying,” he said. “Seriously, ____. Release the boy from misery and just get back together.”

They watched you grimace. “You all know my relationship with Jungkook has been long complicated for it to be as easy as that.”

“Did he cheat on you?” Namjoon asked.

“No, of course not.” You scoffed. “He’s an annoying shit for the most part but he’s not a cheater.”

He physically relaxed at the confirmation. “Good, because I don’t think I can beat him in a fistfight.”

Yoongi chuckled. “What’s the matter then? You still haven’t spared us any details on why you’re so keen to divorce him.”

“There’s no particular reason,” you sighed with a throw of your hand. “It’s just a compilation of the small things. He’s away most of the time, I’m away most of the time when he’s available—we fight a lot, argue a lot, it just doesn’t seem to be worth fighting for anymore.”

“So, you don’t love him anymore?”

“I…” you trailed, abruptly feeling like you were being interrogated, “I mean, love doesn’t go away easily. And it hasn’t been that long since we called it quits.”

The three men shared a look among themselves.

You straighten your posture. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What does?” Hoseok queried.

“That look you guys just gave each other. I don’t like it.”

“That’s just their faces, babe,” Jungkook reappeared, taking the liberty to take the seat on your right. “What are you fellas talking about?” he asked his buddies.

They didn’t dare utter a word. You were under the impression that they had an understanding between them that talking about your relationship right in Jungkook’s face was something one should not ought to do.

You, on the other hand, took it as your cue to speak, starting another topic to hopefully erase the previous one. “Ben said he can come. He’s boarding tonight,” you told Jungkook as he’s sipping from his glass of service water.

“That’s good.” He didn’t look as interested as he was yesterday.

“Who’s Ben?” It was Hoseok again.

“The bank clerk,” Jungkook answered.

“The new guy you’re seeing?” Yoongi asked you.

“Yep,” you said before turning to Jungkook. “And can you please refer to him by his name? He’s not just a bank clerk.”

“Is he a boring bank clerk?” Jungkook asked, that teasing smirk flashing on his mouth.

“Will he be here tomorrow?” Namjoon chimed in.

You nodded. “Hopefully.”

“Great,” Jungkook placed his glass down on the table. “It’ll be enough time to get to know him.”

He said ‘enough time’ like his time was limited because it really was. He informed you before you parted ways yesterday that he was graduating from the academy this Friday, and that after that, he was almost 100% sure he was going to be deployed again with some of his classmates for a mission that you wouldn’t be allowed to know the details of.

Your stomach somersaulted when he told you that.

Somehow, despite convincing yourself that you no longer cared for Jungkook, the thought of his life being put at risk again once he was back on the field made you want to vomit in anxiety. It reminded you that his very dangerous occupation was one of the root causes of your separation, for there were months wherein you couldn’t take the fear of waiting in uncertainty on whether he was going to come home to you or not, regardless of how he promised he would every single time.

It was funny, you thought. One of your similarities with your husband was that the both of you were adrenaline junkies. You and him bonded over extreme rides in amusement parks, activities that got your heart pumping and gave you the sensation of being on top of the world—and yet it was the reason why you didn’t want to be with him anymore as well, too scared to continue loving him if he always sought for adventure and danger through being a naval aviator.

“You knew what you were signing up for, ____,” he told you during one of your many arguments. “You entered this relationship knowing the nature of my job. You can’t expect to adjust for you when it comes to—”

“I’m not expecting you to adjust for me, Kook,” you replied in exasperation, practically begging him to listen to you with an open mind at that point. “God, I just want you to consider me. I just want to feel that for once, you actually remember that someone’s always waiting for you to come home.”

Whenever conversations like that popped back inside your memory, you forced yourself to push it away. It wasn’t an experience you wanted to relive. You’ve spent far too many nights just crying because of how it felt like to be in a constant state of worry for the person you found yourself loving the most.

“We can all meet him, right?” asked Hoseok, looking at the other guys for back up.

You surveyed them, raising your eyebrows before saying your answer.

“Like the hell you would.”

#jungkook #bts

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knoepfl · 2 months ago

Note

Can you do Legoshi from Beastars with an extremely pessimistic, cynical, introverted, and antisocial fem! black cat reader of very few words who he meets when she's scouted as the new head writer since the President of the Drama was extremely impressed by her near-perfect grades?

Shadows and Stars

Characters:

1. Legoshi: A shy, introspective gray wolf in the drama club, empathetic but socially awkward.

2. Black Cat (Head Writer): A reserved, sharp-tongued new member with a guarded yet intense demeanor.

3. Louis: The confident, demanding red deer president of the drama club.

---

Trigger Warnings:

1. Social Anxiety: Depictions of awkward and tense interactions. 2. Loneliness: Themes of isolation and guarded behavior. 3. Stress: Characters under creative and interpersonal pressure. 4. Emotional Tension: Subtle, intense dynamics between characters.

Masterlist

Words: 1535

--- The morning light trickled through the half-open windows of the drama clubroom. Legoshi shifted uncomfortably as he adjusted a prop tree, his mind preoccupied with a myriad of thoughts. The sudden announcement from Louis the previous week had taken everyone by surprise—a new head writer had been chosen.

She had arrived earlier that day, slipping into the room with all the presence of a shadow. Legoshi watched her from the corner of his eye as she sat, barely speaking, her sharp gaze fixed on the scattered scripts before her. A black cat with an air of indifference, she radiated a quiet intensity that made even the most confident club members uneasy.

“Her grades are unmatched,” Louis had explained with his usual brisk tone. “She’s exactly what we need to elevate this production.”

Legoshi’s tail flicked nervously as he approached her.

“Uh... hi. I’m Legoshi,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual.

The cat glanced up briefly, her green eyes narrowing slightly before she returned to her work. “Okay.”

It wasn’t rude, but it wasn’t warm either. It was… curt, like she had decided he wasn’t worth more than a single syllable. He shifted awkwardly.

“So… um, you’re the new writer?” he tried again, his ears twitching as the silence stretched uncomfortably.

“Yes.”

Another sharp, clipped answer. Legoshi’s tail drooped. He wasn’t good at conversations on the best of days, but this was like trying to talk to a brick wall. Still, there was something about her that intrigued him—something about the way she seemed to carry a world of thoughts behind those short answers.

“Is there… anything you need help with?” he asked, trying to be helpful.

The cat finally put down her pen and looked at him fully. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was calm and measured. “No. I’m used to doing things myself.”

Legoshi nodded, unsure if that was a dismissal. “Okay… I’ll just, uh, be over here then.”

She didn’t reply, her attention already back on the papers in front of her. He slunk back to his corner, silently berating himself for his awkwardness. But as the hours passed, he couldn’t help but watch her work.

Her movements were precise, her focus unyielding. She scribbled notes in the margins of the script, her handwriting neat and deliberate. Occasionally, she would pause to glance around the room, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

It was Louis who finally broke the ice—if only unintentionally.

“Legoshi, stop lurking and make yourself useful!” the deer snapped, gesturing toward the new head writer. “She needs the last script drafts from the archives. Take her.”

Legoshi’s ears flattened, but he obeyed. He shuffled over to her, mumbling, “Uh, we need to get the drafts. I can show you where they are.”

She stood without a word, gathering her things before following him.

The walk to the archives was silent. Legoshi felt like he should say something, but every time he glanced at her, she seemed lost in thought, her expression unreadable.

When they reached the dusty shelves of the archives, she finally broke the silence.

“This must be exhausting for you,” she said, her voice low but unexpectedly soft.

Legoshi blinked. “What do you mean?”

“All this social interaction,” she replied, glancing at him sideways. “It seems... draining.”

He hesitated. “It can be,” he admitted, “but I like helping people.”

She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as though she understood. They worked in silence for a while, sorting through the papers.

“You’re... different,” she said suddenly, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.

“Different how?”

She didn’t answer right away, her eyes focused on the script in her hands. Finally, she murmured, “Most people talk too much.”

Legoshi chuckled softly, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I guess I’m not most people then.”

For the first time, her lips twitched, almost forming a smile. It was brief, but it was there.

Maybe, Legoshi thought, as they continued to work together, she wasn’t as unreachable as she seemed.

---

The warm glow of the afternoon sun cast soft streaks across the dusty floorboards of the drama club’s archive room. Legoshi’s ears twitched nervously as he glanced at the black cat beside him. She was leaning against one of the towering shelves, her sleek frame almost melding into the shadows, her sharp green eyes scanning the scripts she had pulled from the stacks.

The air felt heavy. Legoshi shuffled his feet, his large claws scraping lightly against the floor. He wanted to speak, to break the suffocating silence, but her rigid posture and piercing gaze kept him rooted in place.

“Legoshi,” she said suddenly, her voice low and deliberate.

He flinched, startled. “Y-Yes?”

“You’re breathing too loud.” She didn’t look up, her tail swishing once before curling tightly around her.

“Oh. S-Sorry.” He ducked his head, his ears flattening as he tried to stifle the deep, instinctive breaths his body demanded.

For a moment, she said nothing, her expression blank as her eyes flicked between the pages of the script. Then, with a sigh, she set the stack down and turned to him fully, her hands resting loosely in her pockets.

“You’re... not what I expected,” she murmured, her tone unreadable.

Legoshi blinked, his tail curling awkwardly behind him. “What do you mean?”

“Most people are loud. Obnoxious.” She tilted her head slightly, her gaze narrowing as she studied him. “You’re... quiet. And you don’t stare.”

Legoshi rubbed the back of his neck, his claws grazing the fur there. “I-I mean, it’s rude to stare. And I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable…” His voice trailed off, his body hunching slightly under her scrutiny.

Her lips twitched—a movement so subtle it might have been missed entirely. “Not bad,” she muttered, almost to herself.

“Uh… thanks?” Legoshi offered hesitantly, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

She turned back to the scripts, her movements fluid and deliberate. The air between them settled into a tense quiet, though it felt less sharp than before.

---

Later, back in the drama clubroom, Louis was barking orders at the cast, his voice sharp and commanding as he directed a rehearsal. Legoshi lingered near the edge of the room, holding a box of props. His eyes darted to the black cat, who had returned to her corner with the same detached grace, her pen scratching lightly against the pages of her notebook.

Legoshi couldn’t help but watch her, his large, gray ears twitching slightly. There was something captivating about her—how still she was, like a predator lying in wait. She wrote with an intensity that made the rest of the bustling room feel irrelevant.

A loud clatter jolted him from his thoughts.

“Legoshi!” Louis barked, his sharp amber eyes boring into him. “Stop staring and do something useful.”

“S-Sorry!” Legoshi stammered, his claws fumbling with the box as he scrambled to set it down. His tail curled tightly around his leg as he ducked his head, trying to make himself smaller.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the black cat glance up, her green eyes briefly flicking to Louis before returning to her work.

---

Later that day, as the club emptied out, Legoshi found himself walking beside her again. She didn’t speak, her footsteps soft and deliberate against the pavement.

“I, uh, hope today wasn’t too stressful,” Legoshi offered, his voice barely above a murmur.

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Why do you care?”

Legoshi hesitated, his shoulders hunching as he struggled to find the right words. “I… I just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.”

Her ears flicked back, and she looked away. “I’m used to stress. It’s not a big deal.”

He nodded slowly, his claws tapping lightly against his thighs as they walked. “I guess… but you don’t have to handle everything alone. Sometimes it’s okay to let people help.”

She stopped suddenly, turning to face him. Her gaze was sharp, her tail flicking behind her. “Why? Why does it matter to you?”

Legoshi froze, his ears flattening as he struggled under her intense stare. “B-Because…” He swallowed, his large hands fidgeting nervously. “I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t fit in. And… I think it’s nice to have someone who understands.”

Her eyes widened slightly, the smallest crack in her composed demeanor. But just as quickly, she looked away, her shoulders tensing.

“I don’t need anyone to understand,” she said flatly, though her voice was quieter than before.

Legoshi tilted his head, his tail swishing gently behind him. “Maybe not,” he said softly, “but it’s okay if you do.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The fading light of the evening painted the campus in warm hues, and the air between them felt heavy with unspoken words.

Finally, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re strange, Legoshi.”

He blinked. “I-I am?”

“Yes,” she said simply, her lips twitching again in that almost-smile. “But it’s not the worst thing.”

Legoshi couldn’t stop the small wag of his tail as he followed her back to the dorms, the faintest hint of hope blooming in his chest.

Maybe, he thought, some connections didn’t need words—they just needed time.

---

593 notes · View notes

thebibliosphere · 5 months ago

Note

A question out of curiosity, has MyChart made a difference in how you interact with the medical system? I think it's a neat service, and I like to look at the notes doctors put on my files, it's especially funny to catch typos. On the other hand, I can see how for some people it would just be anxiety inducing. Where do you fall on the spectrum?

My PCP sends me Snoopy gifs via the messaging system in response to the messages I send him at 2am about medication questions.

It's worth it for that alone.

But no, seriously, as someone who suffered from profound medical abuse and gaslighting, having access to my files and all the notes has been so empowering and helped me take back autonomy over my medical care.

It's not like when I was a kid growing up and my mother had to sue the NHS (I’m originally from the UK) to get my brother’s medical records released, a process that took almost a decade, only to find entire chunks of it had been redacted to cover up the malpractice surrounding his birth.

Every time I tell her I can see every note that’s added to my file she’s less scared a doctor is going to hurt me because of the transparency and accountability having access to the mychart provides.

I’d never willingly go back to a system that doesn’t have that. Even if it sometimes means you’re looking at your test results at 2am like “tf does that mean?” and opening up Google.

707 notes · View notes

joemama-2 · 2 months ago

Text

the sound of you | ch. 1 new face, new race

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ pairing : gojo x fem reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ synopsis: what happens when a man who uses intimacy to numb his pain collides with a woman who sees vulnerability as her greatest weakness? a storm of desire, denial, and shattered hearts. you never imagined someone like him—magnetic, self-assured, and emotionally closed off—would enter your life. worse, you never expected to crave him in return. but fate has a cruel way of stitching together souls that should never meet, dragging you both into a spiral of unspoken truths, unresolved wounds, and a connection that feels more like a curse than a blessing.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tags/warnings: slowburn, angst, fluff, sexual content, mentions of trauma, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, blood, miscommunication, alcohol, drugs, opposites attract, manipulation, mentions of bullying, death, smut, insecurity galore, selective mutism, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, modern au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ wc: 12.5k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ status: ongoing

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ series masterlist < next chapter

Sometimes, you feel like you’ve been taxidermied.

It’s a sort of here and there thought, but one you have quite frequently in the past few months. As a joke, you entertain the idea that you’ve been stuffed with some really soft pink stuffing, on display for your murderer (aka: your taxidermist) to look at in awe whenever he passes by. You’re probably placed on the highest shelf, behind tough glass and labeled “My Most Prized Possession”. Your murderer most likely stops and stands for minutes—maybe even hours on end just admiring his beautiful work.

Being admired from afar feels more comforting than being murdered and stuffed to live an eternity of still motion.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re not dead. You’re not even still. You’re here, breathing, blinking, existing. Living. If that’s what you’d even call this state of being—where silence becomes your only companion and time stretches on in sharp, endless intervals. You wonder sometimes if he thinks about you—your murderer. Does he imagine you now, a neat and quiet version of yourself, perfectly preserved and tucked away where no one else can reach? Did he know, even then, how deeply he’d leave his mark? How thoroughly he’d hollow you out, leaving you more object than person? Of course he did.

It’s easier to imagine it that way, isn’t it? Easier to think of yourself as someone turned to glass, smoothed over and sealed shut, rather than acknowledge the fractures your murderer left behind. Easier to believe the silence is yours, not his. That it’s you who has taken up residence behind that invisible barrier, rather than admitting that someone else built it for you.

Sometimes, you wonder if he’s still proud of his handiwork.

Your therapist once told you that silence isn’t the absence of sound—it’s a choice, an act of power. But it doesn’t feel powerful when you’re here, sitting alone with the weight of your thoughts pressing into your chest, nursing your usual morning cup of tea. It doesn’t feel like a choice when the words twist themselves into knots inside you, stuck behind walls you’ve never been able to climb. It feels, instead, like a kind of stillness you can’t escape.

It wasn’t always like this. You remember a time when your voice felt whole, unbroken, like the summer wind passing through your window. Back then, you used to laugh with abandon, a sound so natural it felt like breathing. You remember because it’s impossible to forget what was taken from you.

Your murderer took that from you. Not all at once, of course—he wasn’t that kind. He dismantled you piece by piece, word by word, until you were something new. Something smaller. Something that fit in the palm of his hand, ready to be admired and forgotten at his convenience.

You close your eyes against the memory, swallowing the bitter ache that always follows it. You think you might be okay with being admired, so long as you never have to see him again.

You should probably stop thinking. You have to leave for work in fifteen minutes. A teacher assistant position at the nearby kindergarten. If you had asked your high school what you would be doing in the future, a teacher would be the last on the list. Of course, you cherish children. Their little laughs and curious questions bring you a warmth and joy that’s hard to find nowadays. The head teacher, Emi Inoue, is a wonderful older lady.

You love your job. Sure you’d like it if it paid more, but it’s better than any retail position.

Besides, working with children has given you a better sense of empathy, compassion, and patience. Something you desperately need in child care.

The crispy air flies past your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Wearing a long, but modest skirt. Paired with a simple long sleeved shirt, your lanyard hanging around your neck, covering your shivering body with the only coat that offers you enough warmth. You should probably go shopping sometime soon again.

The train station isn’t far, luckily. A soft song playing from the buds lodged in your ears, hands stuffed in your pockets as you and other working civilians of Shibuya. Within ten minutes, the train makes its stop. The doors slide open and you make your way inside. Most of the interior is stuffed, presumably so considering its rush hour and people need to get to work. Luckily, you manage to find a tiny clearing—standing the entirety of the forty minute ride.

You keep a tight hold on the silver bar, forcing your body to stay in place and not jolt around as the train continues on. The vibrations of the train hum beneath your feet, a rhythmic reminder of your path forward. The soft song in your ears competes with the muffled chatter and occasional announcements over the intercom. Your grip on the silver bar is firm, fingers chilled despite the warmth of your coat. Around you, people shuffle in and out at each stop, their movements mechanical, heads bowed over phones or staring blankly at nothing in particular.

The man beside you adjusts his briefcase, brushing against your arm, and you instinctively shrink further into yourself. You’re not a fan of the close quarters, but it’s unavoidable during rush hour. You remind yourself this ride is temporary, that the crowded carriage is just a bridge between here and there. That doesn’t stop you from moving a few inches away.

Outside the window, the city blurs into a wash of concrete, neon signs, and fleeting glimpses of people starting their day. A quiet sigh escapes you as you press your shoulder closer to the cold pole, grounding yourself against the lurching movements of the train. Forty minutes feels like an eternity when you’re standing still, surrounded but untouchable. The song in your earbuds shifts, a gentler melody now, one that tugs at memories you’ve tried to push away. You shake your head slightly, trying to focus on the present—the sway of the train, the weight of your bag, the familiar tightness in your chest that you’ve learned to ignore.

At least no one asks questions when you’re quiet. Silence is an art form here, unspoken but deeply understood. It wraps around you, offering a small comfort in the chaos of a city that never seems to stop moving. The train jerks to a stop again, this time more abruptly, and the woman in front of you stumbles. You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing hers as you steady her. She mutters a quick “thank you” without meeting your eyes, and you offer a slight nod in return before retreating.

The moments bleed into each other, a series of starts and stops, until the train finally announces your destination. You weave through the crowd as the doors slide open, stepping onto the platform and into the crisp air again. It bites at your cheeks, but you welcome it. The world outside feels a little freer, even if it isn’t really.

As you make your way toward the stairs, your gaze falls on the station clock. Still on time, at least. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, tugging your coat closer to your body as you join the river of people flowing upward. Another day, another destination, another silent step forward. You can do this.

A buzz vibrates in your coat pocket. Picking out your phone and turning it on, the name Ieiri is posted, followed by a message. A small smile forms on your lips as you unlock your phone and go to your messages.

Ieiri:

Breakfast.

And it’s a picture of a lot cigarette between her two fingers, a plate of white rice to the side.

You sigh, eyes rolling lightheartedly as you type back a response:

You:

Not healthy, do u have groceries?

Ieiri:

Nope

You:

Then we’ll go together

Ieiri:

Lol it’s fine, Y/N

You shake your head, stepping out the way of an older man who seems to not care about watching where he’s going.

You:

We’ll go

Is what you end with, locking your phone again and putting it back in your pocket as you enter the gates of the school. The staff and teachers politely greet you. With a wave and smile back, you walk to the familiar room of Room 132. The children aren’t here yet, Mrs. Inoue and you using this time to set up the room for the upcoming day.

The classroom smells faintly of chalk and the citrus cleaner the janitors must have used the night before. Room 132 has always been a small but cozy space, its walls decorated with colorful posters, crayon drawings, and motivational quotes in blocky fonts. You glance around, taking in the comforting familiarity of it all.

Mrs. Inoue is already there, humming softly to herself as she arranges supplies on one of the low tables. She’s always been the early bird between the two of you, her energy a steady constant in the whirlwind of your mornings. “Oh, good morning!” she greets cheerfully, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I was wondering when you’d get here. It’s chilly out, isn’t it?”

You nod with a small smile, shrugging off your coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. The warmth of the classroom is a welcome reprieve from the biting air outside, and you take a moment to savor it before moving to help her.

“We’re going to need extra paper for the art project today,” Mrs. Inoue continues, gesturing to a nearby shelf. “And maybe an extra set of paints too. You know how much they love to mix all the colors together into one big muddy mess.”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward at that. It’s true—your students have a way of turning even the most structured activity into pure chaos. But it’s the kind of chaos you don’t mind. You grab the supplies she mentioned, setting them out on the tables in neat, colorful rows. The work feels methodical, soothing even, as the room slowly comes to life with the promise of the day ahead. “Do you have the attendance chart?” Mrs. Inoue asks, her voice breaking your focus. You hum, retrieving it from your bag and handing it to her. “Thanks! I’ll get started on marking the seating arrangements.” She pauses, glancing at you over her shoulder. “By the way, are you feeling okay? You seemed a little out of it yesterday.”

You hesitate, the question catching you off guard. But Mrs. Inoue doesn’t push; she never does. Her tone is light, her expression warm, like she’s offering you an out if you need it.

“I’m fine,” you say finally, your voice soft but steady. She nods, accepting your answer without prying further. The silence that follows is comfortable, punctuated only by the faint sound of the heating system kicking on. Soon, the time will come where the students start trickling in, and the room will fill with laughter, chatter, and tiny voices calling your name.

For now, though, it’s just you, Mrs. Inoue, and the quiet promise of a new day.

Before you know it, there’s the tiny patter of feet against the floor, followed by excited screams of “Good morning, Mrs. Inoue! Good Morning, Ms. L/N!”

The noise floods the room like a wave, and for a moment, you're almost taken aback by the sudden shift. It’s always like this—the children bounding in with that infectious energy, their little faces lighting up with excitement. Their voices blend together in a sweet chorus of greetings as they run to their seats, eager to start the day. You smile softly, the weight of their energy lifting something inside you. “Good morning, everyone,” you reply, your voice silky but clear enough to be heard over the commotion. A few of them pause mid-stride, turning to beam at you as if their morning isn’t complete without that small exchange. It’s a ritual, a moment you’ve come to cherish despite everything else.

One of the kids, Ayumi, shyly tugs on your sleeve as she passes by. "Ms. L/N, I drew something for you!" Her small, crinkled drawing of a smiley sun and a big flower is presented with a proud grin. You bend down to meet her, taking the drawing gently and nodding in appreciation.

"Thank you, Ayumi," you say with sincerity, tucking it into the pocket of your apron for safekeeping. She beams, pleased by your reaction. The other children are settling into their seats now, the others still hanging up their tiny backpacks. The noise slowly dying down as Mrs. Inoue begins to go over the day’s schedule. You move to your desk, organizing your own materials for the upcoming lessons.

There's something comforting about this routine, about how predictable and grounded the children's excitement makes the world feel. Even if you don't speak much, even if the silence weighs heavily on you some days, in this room, with these kids, you feel like you belong.

The chatter resumes as they prepare for the first activity, but you don't mind. In this space, you're safe. The world outside might be noisy, chaotic, even isolating—but here, in Room 132, it’s just a quiet promise of another day.

The kids here, they’ve accepted that. Sometimes they ask the blatant question like why are you so quiet or if you don’t like talking. Each time, you regard them with a low chuckle, carefully explaining that you talk when you have to.

“But don’t we always have to talk, Ms. L/N?” One of your students had asked, head tilting in confusion.

Your lips upturn warmly, the question never getting easier to answer, but you’ve grown used to it. The innocence in their voices, their genuine curiosity, makes it harder to simply brush it off. You leaned down to meet the little one’s gaze, the child’s wide eyes watching you intently.

“Well,” you began, choosing your words carefully, “sometimes, I don’t need to talk to show that I’m listening, or that I’m here with you." You paused for a moment, glancing around at the other children who are now focused on the conversation. "Talking isn’t always the only way to communicate, is it?"

Some of them nod slowly, processing the idea, while others remain puzzled, unsure of how to make sense of the concept. It’s a delicate thing, explaining the layers of silence to young minds who are still learning the value of words.

"I still listen to you," you continue, pointing to your ears, "and I still care about what you say. But sometimes, I choose other ways to show that." You then tap your heart lightly, a gesture that seems to make sense to them, one that they can latch onto without needing to understand the deeper complexities.

The student who asked the question, Haruto, looks thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs. “Oh, okay! So you don’t always need to talk. You just…know?”

You nod, offering him an encouraging smile. "Exactly. Sometimes, knowing is enough."

They all seemed content with that answer, the conversation naturally shifting as they returned to their work. But you can’t shake the feeling that the question lingered in the air long after the words had left their mouths. It’s a reminder that, even in a room full of children, the silence you carry is still something to be questioned, to be examined.

But for now, you’ve found your peace in their acceptance, in their unspoken understanding. And that, you think, is enough.

It’s around seven in the evening now. Shoko and you walk into the grocery store, side by side as she pushes a small cart. You’ve gotten on your friend multiple times now about her less than savory eating habits. She’s a smoker, so you try to give her enough leeway.

But still. She tends to neglect herself at times, and being the good friend you are, you’re there to correct that when you see it happen. Of course she helps you out too for your own situations.

The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead as you and Shoko make your way through the aisles. The store isn’t too crowded, the hum of casual chatter and the occasional squeak of shopping carts filling the air. She lazily steers the cart, her free hand stuffed into the pocket of her jacket. “You know, I could just order takeout for the week and call it a day,” she says, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

“You could,” you reply with a knowing look, “but then I’d have to come over and lecture you about how your fridge only ever has beer and instant noodles.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“I have to be. Someone has to keep you alive,” you frown, reaching out to grab a bundle of fresh vegetables from the shelf. You toss it into the cart, earning a groan from Shoko.

“Do I look like someone who knows what to do with broccoli?” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to her words.

You sigh softly, grabbing another item and placing it beside the broccoli. “You don’t have to know. That’s what recipes are for.”

She pauses, leaning against the handle of the cart as you pick out a loaf of bread. “You’re too good to me, you know,” she says after a moment, her voice softer now.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, you’re the only one who cares enough to do stuff like this. Dragging me to the store, making sure I don’t waste away on convenience store snacks…”

“That’s what friends are for,” you reply simply, grabbing a pack of her favorite tea and dropping it into the cart.

She huffs a quiet laugh, pushing the cart forward again. “Yeah, well, remind me to return the favor next time you’re in a rut.”

You don’t say anything, but the smile on your face speaks volumes. The two of you continue down the aisles, the easy rhythm of your friendship filling the spaces between the mundane task of grocery shopping. It’s a small moment, but one that feels steady, grounding. By the time you reach the checkout line, Shoko’s cart is filled with a mix of healthy staples and a few indulgent snacks she managed to sneak in when you weren’t looking. She leans against the counter as you both wait, glancing at you again. “Thanks, really,” she says quietly, her tone carrying more sincerity than before.

You offer her a small nod, your way of saying anytime.

Shoko was the first person you met when starting to work in Tokyo. It was by random, on a sunny Saturday morning while completing your usual coffee run. The memory of that first meeting still lingers vividly in your mind, even after all this time. Shoko had been standing at the counter, her hair slightly messy, dressed in scrubs under an oversized hoodie, clearly on a break or just off a shift. She had glanced over at you while waiting for her coffee, and for some reason, she struck up a conversation—a mix of casual observations and dry humor that somehow coaxed a rare chuckle out of you. And honestly, you weren’t used to people like her—confident but not overbearing, witty without being cruel. She wasn’t trying to force you into anything, just filling the space in a way that felt oddly reassuring.

It became a regular thing after that, running into her at the same coffee shop every Saturday morning. Slowly but surely, the encounters turned into an unspoken tradition. She’d do most of the talking, and you’d offer her your quiet company, which she came to appreciate more than she’d admit. Though most of the conversations were spent with her own voice filling the air, you would still find it in you to acknowledge her. At first, she was put off. She’s not exactly the loudest and most extroverted person, either. But with you, she realized the silence was nice. Comfortable even. Like a break of fresh air after a busy, busy day of an OBGYN.

As of now, she’s the only one you find yourself spending time with outside of work and home. You like the simplicity. Now, years later, the dynamic hasn’t changed much. Shoko remains your anchor in Tokyo, a constant presence who understands your silences better than most. It’s not perfect—she has her moments of self-destruction, and you have your walls—but it works.

It took a while for you to open up to her, and once you did, she welcomed every incident, every emotion, every hesitation with open arms. She’s the kind of friend who knows when to push you to eat something or when to leave you be, when to crack open a beer (even though you don’t drink, making your own virgin margarita) with you in silence or pull you out of your shell for a late-night convenience store run.

In a way, she’s your best friend. You haven’t said that part out loud yet, even if you two have been friends for about three, almost four years now. But you think she knows, she has to. Neither of you really like the labels, and you’re fine with just being Shoko and Y/N. Neither of you needs to put a name to it, this friendship. It exists in the spaces between words, in the easy routine of your grocery trips, the casual texts about nothing in particular, and the quiet understanding that you’ve got each other’s backs.

As the two of you leave the store, the plastic bags swinging from Shoko’s hands, she glances over at you, smirking. “So, what’s the verdict? Did I pass the responsible adult grocery list test?”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Barely.”

She nudges you with her elbow, her grin widening. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You help her out the bags into the trunk of her black Mazda CX-5. Once that’s complete, you head into the passenger seat, her the driver's seat. She starts the engine and pulls off the curb, driving the route back to your apartment. The music of her playlist plays for a few minutes, the two of you speaking no words. At the third red light, she clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “Hey, so I’m meeting up with some friends this Saturday night at Speakeasy. I was wondering if you wanted to come. You don’t have to, but it’s just an offer if you’re not busy.”

You glance out the window, watching the city lights flicker past as her words hang in the air. Speakeasy—a bar with dim lighting, soft music, and a reputation for being both lively and intimate. It’s not the kind of place you frequent, but you know Shoko wouldn’t ask unless she thought it might be good for you. Still, the idea of stepping into a crowded room full of strangers makes your chest tighten slightly. You turn your head to look at her, the faint glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across her face. "Who’s going to be there?" you ask, your voice barely louder than the music playing from her speakers.

“Just a few people I went to med school and high school with,” she replies casually, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “Nothing too crazy. You’d like them, I think. They’re not the obnoxious kind, well maybe only one of them. But I don’t know if he’ll be there.”

You hum in acknowledgment, weighing the decision. You know Shoko wouldn’t push if you said no—she never does. But there’s a part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to try something new. To let her world blend into yours for an evening. “I’ll think about it,” you say finally, giving her a small smile.

Shoko glances at you briefly before focusing back on the road, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s not a no. I’ll take it.”

The light turns green, and the car lurches forward. By the time she pulls up in front of your apartment, the decision still lingers in the back of your mind. Shoko leans against the steering wheel, her eyes glancing over at you as you gather your things. “Don’t stress about it,” she says softly, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. “But, you know… it could be fun.”

You nod before stepping out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. Eat well.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she calls after you as you close the door.

As you head inside, you can’t help but replay her words in your mind. The thought of going out, of meeting new people—it feels daunting, but not entirely impossible. For now, though, you’ll leave it as something to consider.

“Wakey, wakey.”

The sound of a woman sleepily groaning sounds throughout the room, to which Satoru is internally celebrating because he won’t have to resort to other methods (hitting her with a pillow or snatching the—his—blanket off her body, or if he really wanted to be obnoxious, playing a loud sound of an alarm clock in her ear). Her eyes blearily open, seeing his lower half initially, but they travel up to his face. He’s already staring down at her with a smile that’s all too cheery for…..eight in the morning.

“W–wha–”

“Guess what it’s time for. Any guesses?” He uses his fist as a fake microphone, humming with his eyes pointed to the ceiling in faux thought. A second of silence passes before he continues. “Ah, nothing? Well, I’ll give you a hint. What starts with an ‘L’ and ends with a ‘E’?”

Seriously, this is not what she was expecting first thing in the morning. “I—huh….?”

“Errr, 500 for time to leave?” Satoru lowers his pitch of voice, mimicking another person speaking. “Correct!” He returns back to his own tone, but once he sees the woman is still laying down in the same position on his bed with that confused expression that’s starting to get a little on his nerves, he rolls his eyes dramatically and sighs. “Get up.”

She gasps as he lifts her up by her arms, not too rough but still enough to jostle the sleepiness away from her senses. “Ah! Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” Satoru is practically dragging her out to his room and to the front door. He’s tempted to yank his shirt off her body, but then she’d be left naked. And Satoru isn’t that much of an asshole. With his free hand, he rips the door open and practically pushes her out. She stumbles and turns around to face him.

“Had a good night and all, but sorry, I don’t like visitors. Get home safe, yeah?”

He closes and locks the door in her face just as she opens her mouth. He can faintly hear her complaining on the other side, to which he rolls his eyes again and mumbles a small “dramatic” under his breath, before stalking over to the kitchen with a hum to make his breakfast.

And so, he moves in relative calmness, seemingly already pushing the situation out his mind for room for his delicious pancakes topped with copious amounts of syrup and sliced strawberries. Oh, but don’t forget the powdered sugar he layers as the final topping, served with a glass of cool orange juice. His mouth is practically watering as he sits down at his table with the plate in front of him, begging him eat me, eat me. Satoru has never had good self control, so he gives into the silent pleading and instantly devours at a speed that should honestly be concerning for him.

The rest of his house is empty and quiet, save for his slobbering. But it’s always silent. After all, he is the only occupant, savoring his alone time. It’s why he kicked out that woman. Sasha? Or maybe Sarah? He forgot already. This is what most of his mornings consist of, anyway. So yes, in conclusion, he’s very used to this little routine he has going on.

The list goes like this. First, make stupid decisions and come back with a woman around your arm. Fuck her good, wake up the next morning and not regret it, but rather remove any traces of the mistake as soon as possible. Once that’s over, eat breakfast, head to your in-home gym to do his routine workout. Clean up and see which one of your friends you can bother. Oh but how could he forget work. Right, so work while you’re bothering people. Sleep and repeat. Luckily, he doesn’t have a lecture until 11:30.

He doesn’t always bring a woman home, but if he had to say how many times a week he does, he would only say three. Which really isn’t that much, he tells himself. Because there’s times where he doesn’t even sleep with them. Either he suddenly gets a weird pre-nut clarity, the sex isn’t good just only one minute in, or they start drunkenly crying to him about whatever mid-life crisis they’re going through.

To which he scoffs and rolls his eyes and promptly kicks them out.

Some would—do—call his lifestyle bad. Unhealthy. Whatever, he thinks. He’s a grown man, he could literally do whatever the hell he wanted. He’s clean and gets tested regularly, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? His friends try to get him to stop this stupid and reckless path he’s going down, but it almost always ends in him shrugging them off and continuing anyway.

Satoru likes the freedom, the ability to do what he wants without some bitch in his ear complaining about how ‘you need to stop this’. He has money, a good house, looks, smarts, everything. Really, he’s the full package. Satoru is a fairly happy-going person, he likes control. But when other people try to take that away from him, it almost sends him into a state of anger. Even if it’s out of love or whatever they say it’s for, still. He likes having control over himself and his life. So, who do these people think they are trying to tell him otherwise? They’re just lucky he’s smart enough to walk away before he says or does something he’ll more than likely forget. He doesn’t regret much, but one thing he does and always will regret is hurting those he holds close.

You could say that’s part of the reason he engages in so many of these little hookups and flings. No strings, no emotional attachment, nothing. He doesn’t have to worry about saying or doing the wrong thing because he’ll never see them again after this. They’ll be gone first thing in the morning, then he’ll have the rest of the day to himself.

What doesn’t sound better than that?

He spends the next hour in his gym, trying to rush a bit so he still has time to freshen up before his lecture.

The ringing of his phone cuts him off just as he’s in the middle of his third set of pull ups. He almost doesn’t answer, but with a stolen glance at the screen of his phone with the name and contact photo plastered on it, he sighs, but continues on with his pull ups. “Alexa, answer the phone.”

“Accepting a call from ‘sugurupoo’.” Alexa replies back in her usual monotone voice, it almost makes Satoru laugh at the stupid name he set years ago.

“Satoru, where are you right now?”

“Why?” he grunts out, laughing. “You lookin’ for me?”

Suguru sighs. “I thought we were having a quick bite before our lectures.”

“Ah,” Satoru hums, setting his feet down onto the ground, wiping his forehead with a rag. “Right, I forgot about our little date.”

“First, it’s not a date. And second, you’re an ass. I’ve been waiting for you to show up for twenty minutes now.”

Satoru chuckles, the sound light and teasing. “Twenty minutes? Damn, I didn’t know you missed me that much.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Suguru bites back, though his irritation is softened by the familiarity of their banter. “Where are you?”

“Gym,” Satoru replies, tilting his head to glance at the clock on the wall. “Lost track of time. You know how it is—getting these gains takes commitment.”

“Unbelievable,” Suguru mutters. “You’re bailing on food to flex in front of a mirror?”

“Not just a mirror,” Satoru retorts, grinning. “There’s a crowd, actually. They love me here.”

“You mean your delusions?” Suguru deadpans.

Satoru laughs again, stretching. The sound of his joints popping audible through the phone. “Fine, fine. I’ll head out. You still at the café?”

“Yes,” Suguru says sharply. “But I’m not waiting all day for you, so hurry up.”

“Relax, I’m on my way,” Satoru says, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t eat without me.”

“I’m tempted to,” Suguru mutters before hanging up.

Satoru grins to himself, heading upstairs to the main house. He’s late, sure, but it’s not like Suguru hasn’t come to expect that by now. If anything, it’s part of the charm of being friends with Satoru Gojo—or so he likes to think.

He does a quick shower, changing into a pale blue button up with black slacks to match. A pair of black shoes and his glasses and he’s out. He beeps his Porsche 911 Turbo S in blue, nonchalantly sliding into the drivers side and heading off to the meeting spot with his friend. Using his right hand on the wheel, his other rhythmically tapping against his car door to the beat of the music playing.

In just a few minutes, he parks in two spots and steps out of the car, his sunglasses glinting in the afternoon light as he locks the doors with a press of his key fob. The Porsche chirps in response, drawing a few passing glances from people walking by. He adjusts his neat button-up, tugging at the cuffs to loosen them slightly, and strides toward the café with his usual air of confidence.

The door jingles softly as he steps inside, scanning the room for Suguru. It doesn’t take long to spot him—seated near the window, his long hair tied back, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him.

“About time,” Suguru calls out as Satoru approaches, his tone half-annoyed, half-amused. “Thought you might’ve gotten lost.”

Satoru grins, sliding into the seat across from him. “Me? Lost? Never. You’re just impatient.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re forty minutes late. I could’ve eaten and left by now.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” Satoru says, leaning back in his chair, legs outspread with a smirk. “Because deep down, you enjoy my company too much to leave.”

Suguru rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, instead pushing a menu toward Satoru. “Order something and spare me the theatrics.”

Satoru picks up the menu, glancing at it briefly before setting it down. “I’ll just get the usual. No need to overthink it.”

“The usual being half the menu?” Suguru asks dryly.

“Hey, a man’s like me gotta eat,” Satoru says with a shrug, flagging down a waiter with an easy wave.

As they place their orders and settle into the familiar rhythm of conversation, Satoru can’t help but feel a sense of ease. Despite his tendency to push boundaries—and Suguru’s patience—their friendship remains a constant, grounding him in a way few things do.

“So,” Suguru says after a moment, leaning forward slightly. “How’d last night go for you?”

Satoru laughs, shaking his head. “How do you think?” Pointing to a faint hickey hidden under the collar of his shirt.

“Right,” Suguru says, sighing. “You really have no restraint, you know? You can work at eight in the morning but still stay out until three the previous night.”

“Finally, someone gets it,” Satoru replies, grinning.

Suguru exhales but can’t hide the small smirk tugging at his lips. “Did you at least shower before coming here?”

Satoru flashes him another grin. “Don’t I smell delightful?”

“Like regret and bad decisions,” Suguru rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee.

Satoru laughs. “C’mon, live a little. I had a great night, and now I’m here, ready to be the best company you’ve ever had.”

Suguru watches him for a moment, shaking his head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“And you wouldn’t have me any other way,” Satoru quips, popping the piece of muffin into his mouth as soon as it’s placed in front of his best friend by the waiter.

The other man scoffs but doesn’t argue, instead pushing the plate closer to Satoru. “You’re paying for your own food, by the way.”

“You are so not a gentleman.”

“Not to men, I’m not.”

“So if I were a woman, you’d act charming and like a true man?”

“Hah, you fuckin’ wish.”

“I do,” Satoru replies easily, checking the time on his phone. An hour and a half left.

His friend ignores that remark, crossing his arms as he sets his drink down. “Hey, so are you going to the thing on Saturday?”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, head tilting. “The thing?” he echoes, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Suguru. I get invited to a lot of things.”

Suguru exhales sharply through his nostrils, clearly unamused. “The gathering at Speakeasy. Shoko mentioned it. A bunch of us are meeting up there.”

“Ohhh, that thing,” Satoru says, dragging out the words like he just remembered. He tilts his head the other way, tapping a finger against his chin. “Depends. Who all’s gonna be there?”

“The usual crowd,” Suguru replies. “Shoko, a few people from her med school, some others I think you’ll tolerate.”

Satoru smirks. “Tolerate? You make it sound like I’m hard to please.”

“You are,” Suguru shoots back, his tone dry. “But Shoko insisted on inviting you, and for some reason, I agreed.”

“I’m honored,” Satoru says, placing a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “Fine, I’ll come. But only because I like to make these things interesting.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Interesting how?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Satoru replies, flashing a mischievous grin.

Suguru shakes his head, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Just don’t embarrass us. Or yourself.”

“No promises,” Satoru says, already imagining the chaos he could stir up.

“She did say something, though.” Suguru adds on. When Satoru hums back in response, looking back down at his phone, he continues. “She said under no condition are you to flirt with her friends. She wants everyone to have fun, not stop you from making pass after pass.”

Satoru snorts, barely looking up from his phone. “Shoko said that? That’s rich, coming from someone who thinks ‘fun’ is chain-smoking on the balcony and pretending she’s in a noir film.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his coffee. “Don’t deflect. She’s serious. She doesn’t want you turning her friends into your next dating pool.”

“I don’t date, Suguru,” Satoru replies with a hint of bite, finally glancing up. “I simply... entertain.”

“Exactly her point,” Suguru mutters, crossing his arms. “She knows how you are, and she doesn’t want her friends stuck in your web of ‘entertainment.’”

Satoru leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, his grin widening. “She’s scared they’ll fall for my charm, huh?”

“No,” Suguru says flatly. “She’s scared you’ll get bored, and she’ll have to deal with the aftermath.”

Satoru feigns a hurt expression, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No faith in me at all. I’m deeply wounded.”

Suguru glares at him, unimpressed. “Just… promise you’ll behave. For once.”

Satoru waves him off with a lazy grin. “Fine, fine. I’ll be good. But you know, if someone approaches me, that’s not really on me, is it?”

Suguru groans, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” Satoru says, flashing him a wink before returning to his phone.

“Starting to regret it.” Suguru mumbles under his breath, lip downturning into a frown. He analyzes the white haired man across from him for a silent moment. Watching his smile and small chuckle at something stupid on his phone. He can only hope Satoru will keep his word, truly. Suguru sighs, rubbing his temple as he leans back in his seat. "You know, Satoru, sometimes I wonder if you take anything seriously."

Satoru looks up from his phone, his grin unwavering. "Of course I do! I take having fun very seriously. It’s a full-time job, you know."

Suguru just shakes his head, huffing through his nose. "You’re exhausting."

"And yet," Satoru starts, pointing a finger at him, "you keep inviting me out. Makes you wonder who’s really at fault here, huh?"

Suguru’s frown deepens, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrays him. "I keep hoping one day you’ll surprise me. That you’ll actually act like an adult for more than five minutes."

"Hey," Satoru says, feigning offense. "I can be an adult when it matters. Just because I choose not to all the time doesn’t mean I don’t know how."

Suguru gives him a long, scrutinizing look. "Saturday night. That’s your chance to prove it. Shoko’s giving you one rule. Can you handle that?"

Satoru leans back, tossing his phone onto the table with a dramatic sigh. "Alright, alright. I promise, no flirting with her friends. Cross my heart, hope to die." He even makes a little "X" motion over his chest for emphasis.

"I’m holding you to that," Suguru says, though there’s still skepticism in his tone.

Satoru flashes his trademark smile, full of mischief. "Relax, Suguru. I’ll be the picture of self-control. You won’t even recognize me."

Suguru utters under his breath, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You’ve been debating Shoko’s offer since she told you about it. That was on a Monday. It’s now Friday evening, having just come back from work. The light above displaying its warmth highlights your figure sitting at the lone kitchen table. Well, not exactly lone.

While you’re munching on a platter of rice and fish, your cat is doing the same across from you. Obviously not rice and fish, but her own cat food.

Your calico cat, aptly named Cinnamon, is a picture of elegance wrapped in mischief. Her predominantly white coat is a clean canvas, dotted with splashes of fiery orange and sleek black, creating a tapestry that seems almost deliberate in its beauty. Her left ear is entirely black, contrasting with the orange streak that runs like a comet across her back.

Her sharp green eyes glimmer with curiosity, a mix of jade and lime hues that shift in the warm kitchen light. They’re always watching—whether it’s the flick of your fork, the twitch of your fingers, or the way you lean into your chair, Cinnamon observes it all with the wisdom of a feline who believes she’s the queen of her small domain.

Her paws, delicate and white, tread lightly across the linoleum floor, though they’ve certainly caused their share of chaos when batting pens or half-full glasses off the table. She has a fluffy tail that curves like a question mark, often brushing against your legs as if to say, Don’t forget I’m here.

Despite her mischievous streak, Cinnamon’s coat is always soft to the touch, her fur holding warmth like a freshly baked loaf of bread. And whenever you reach out to pet her, she leans into your hand, her purring a gentle hum that makes the loneliness in your little apartment feel less heavy.

She’s only two years old, having rescued her off the street after a particularly snowy day. She was so small in your hands it was adorable. After her first visit to the vet, you discovered she had been born deaf.

Along with Shoko, Cinnamon had become your anchor after moving to the big city all alone. She was a reminder that you’re not really alone. And while you wish she was granted the right to hear your soft coos and praises, your touch is something that means just as much.

After observing her movements, you look back down at your food. It would be nice to go. Maybe you can make some new friends, get out of your shell for once. You’re 29, but mentally you still feel like you’re in your early twenties. You never really experienced the fun people do at that age. Partying, clubbing, one night stands, waking up on a random person’s couch.

Although sometimes you’re glad you didn’t, the thought still pokes and prods at your subconscious from time to time. Including now. You seriously can’t keep living like this. Seriously, people your age are married and having families. For example, your brother.

You can’t say you hate clubs if you’ve never even gone. You can’t say you hate meeting new people if you rarely even do that. It’s just your own set of insecurities and self doubts that keep you chained to the dungeon of your own mind.

You wonder, sometimes, if it’s easier to stay locked in that safe space of isolation. No one to disappoint, no expectations to meet. It’s so much quieter in your head when you're alone. No judgments, no glances, no questions that you can’t answer.

But then, there’s always that nagging thought, that whisper in the back of your mind. What if you’re missing out on something better? What if there’s more than just the silence you’ve grown comfortable with?

Don’t you deserve some redemption? Not every person on this Earth is a horrible human being.

It’s a familiar battle—the pull between the comfort of solitude and the yearning for something beyond the walls you’ve built. You’ve never been the outgoing type, never the one to seek attention or jump into the spotlight. Yet, part of you wonders if you could change that. If you could be someone who takes risks, someone who shows up for the moments that matter instead of hiding from them.

Shoko. Speakeasy. She’s been inviting you out for months now, but this time feels different. Maybe it’s the way she worded it, or the way she’s been extra persistent, almost as if she can sense that something in you is on the verge of breaking out. But even now, you hesitate. The voices in your head, the ones that keep you quiet and safe, they whisper louder. What if you’re out of place? What if you don’t belong there?

You tap your foot nervously, staring at the plate of food. You’ve been meaning to take that step outside your comfort zone...and yet, there’s still that part of you holding you back, like a tug of war between the unknown and the familiar.

Maybe Saturday is the night you finally take that first step. Or maybe it’ll be another moment of hesitation, another night spent wondering what could have been.

But it’s up to you to make that decision. And the more you sit here and hesitate, think of the what ifs, the harder the decision is becoming. So, with a burst of courage, you rip the bandaid off. No going back.

Your fingers work quickly at your phone screen, typing out:

You:

What time Saturday?

The minutes that pass are spent with you tapping a palm against your cheek, lightly reprimanding yourself. Why did I do that? Now I have to go! The second you get a text back, you’re not sure if it’s dread, anxiety, or a hint of excitement.

Same thing.

Ieiri:

9pm, see you there :)

The night buzzed with an electric hum as Satoru pulled his jacket tighter around himself, stepping out of the sleek black car that parked a few feet away from the club’s entrance. Speakeasy was alive tonight, its neon sign casting a soft glow onto the crowd gathered outside, the faint bass of the music vibrating through the pavement.

He adjusted the collar of his jacket, tossing a quick glance at the line of people waiting to get in. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, but the energy in the air was sharp—anticipatory. Nights like this were his playground, and Satoru never missed an opportunity to enjoy himself. Suguru had texted him earlier to remind him—no, warn him—not to mess around. Shoko’s words were practically seared into his memory by now: No flirting with her friends.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t behave. He just didn’t see the fun in restraint. Still, tonight was about more than just him. He figured he’d at least try to make an effort—for Suguru’s and Shoko’s sake, if nothing else.

Sliding his sunglasses up into his hair, he smirked at the bouncer, who gave him a nod of recognition. Being Satoru Gojo had its perks. He breezed past the line, feeling the envious stares of the waiting crowd. The heavy door opened, and he was hit with a wave of heat, the thrum of music, and the low chatter of voices layered over it all. Inside, the club was alive—dim lights reflecting off polished surfaces, laughter and conversation mingling with the music, and the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the air. He scanned the room, his sharp blue eyes catching on familiar figures near the bar. The DJ was currently playing—what he assumed—early 2000s American music. Not his exact favorite but hey, he actually loves Usher.

The second floor is where Suguru said everyone would be. Making his way up the stairs, he sees that Suguru is already there, leaning casually against the counter with a drink in hand. Shoko sat next to him, her head tilted as she laughed at something he’d said. She noticed him first, her gaze locking onto his before she gave a small, knowing wave.

Satoru sauntered over, seeing the other people Shoko invited, mainly women. his usual swagger in his step, his grin firmly in place. “You miss me?” he asked, sliding into the seat next to Suguru.

“Like a hole in the head,” Shoko deadpanned, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Suguru shook his head, handing Satoru a drink. “You’re late. Again.”

“Fashionably,” Satoru corrected, taking the glass and raising it in mock salute. He leaned back in his seat, letting his gaze drift across the upstairs area. Seemed Shoko went all out, securing a VIP section. It was the same as always—music, drinks, strangers exchanging fleeting glances. Yet, there was a flicker of something different tonight, something he couldn’t quite place.

“So,” he started, swirling the drink in his hand as he turned back to his friends. “Where’s the party?”

Shoko rolled her eyes, her tone dry as she replied, “The party’s right here, Satoru. Try not to ruin it.”

He laughed, leaning forward, his grin widening. “Oh, come on. When have I ever ruined anything?”

Suguru and Shoko exchanged a look, and Satoru rolled his eyes. Tonight was shaping up to be interesting, even if he had to behave. Or at least pretend to.

“Shoko!” One of her friends, visibly drunk, rushes up to her. “The girls and I are doing shots, c’mon!” With a giggle, Shoko is promptly dragged away to the side, a circle of women forming as they ready themselves for the shots they’re about to force down.

After mindlessly sipping, he finishes his drink. Standing up with a small grunt, looking around like he’s scoping the place. “I’ll be back.”

“Satoru.” Suguru replies in that knowing tone of his.

“Relax,” Satoru laughs, nudging his friend’s foot. “I’m behaving. You said I couldn’t flirt with her friends, but they’re not the only eye candy up here.”

Suguru sighs, already regretting his decision to let Satoru tag along. “Just don’t start anything stupid,” he mutters, leaning back against the bar as he watches his friend disappear into the crowd.

Satoru navigates through the sea of people with ease, his height giving him an advantage as he scans the room. The music thrums in his chest, the bass almost matching the rhythm of his pulse. He doesn’t have a plan—not that he ever does—but there’s always something, or someone, that catches his eye.

He moves toward the edge of the dance floor, his gaze flitting between the moving bodies, the glowing bar signs, and the scattered tables filled with groups of friends or couples sharing drinks. It’s not that he’s particularly looking for anything tonight—he just enjoys the thrill of seeing what, or who, might cross his path. As he leans casually against a nearby column, his attention is drawn to a table in the corner. A group of women sits there, laughing and talking over cocktails.

Bingo.

“Hi there,” Satoru approaches the woman on the side, leaning in slightly like he’s trying to make sure she hears him over the music. “You’re very beautiful, are you here all alone?”

The woman startles slightly, her eyes widening as she looks up at him. For a moment, it seems like she’s unsure if he’s even talking to her, her gaze flicking to the nearby group of women. But when she realizes he’s fully focused on her, her cheeks flush a faint pink. “Oh, um,” she stammers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I’m with my friends.” She gestures vaguely toward the table, where the other women are chatting animatedly, seemingly unaware of the exchange.

Satoru grins, “I can tell that much, but I mean are you here with a guy?” He asks, shifting his weight casually as he leans an elbow on the back of her chair.

She lets out a nervous laugh, clearly flustered but not entirely uncomfortable. “I—uh—no, no. Do I know you?”

He tilts his head, his grin widening as if her question is a challenge. “Not yet. But I think we can fix that.”

It’s smooth, calculated—the kind of line Satoru’s used to throwing out without much thought. He doesn’t expect every woman to fall for it, but he knows how to work a room, how to read someone’s body language and play his cards just right.

Suguru’s voice lingers in his head, a faint reprimand. Don’t flirt with her friends. But this woman isn’t part of Shoko’s circle, and besides, Satoru never said he’d stop being himself. “So,” he continues, his voice low and teasing, “are you going to tell me your name, or am I going to have to keep calling you ‘the prettiest girl in the room’ all night?”

The woman lets out a soft, breathy laugh, the kind that tells Satoru she’s not used to this kind of attention—or at least not from someone as bold as him. She glances down at her drink, swirling the contents nervously before finally looking back up at him. “It’s Mayumi,” she says, her voice light and uncertain, as if she’s still deciding whether or not she should be engaging with him.

“Mayumi,” Satoru repeats, tasting her name like it’s something rare and exotic. “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” He leans in slightly, his tone dropping just enough to feel intimate without crossing a line. “So, Mayumi, what brings you here tonight? Celebrating something? Or are you just here to escape the world for a little while?”

Her lips curve into a shy smile, her fingers brushing the edge of her glass. “My friends dragged me out,” she admits. “They thought I needed to… loosen up, I guess.”

“And do you?” he asks, one brow quirking as his grin turns playful.

“Do I what?”

“Need to loosen up.” His voice is teasing, his gaze unwavering as if he’s trying to read every flicker of emotion on her face.

Mayumi looks away, her smile fading into something more subdued. “Maybe,” she murmurs, her tone quieter now. “It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like this.”

Satoru straightens slightly, his grin softening into something that almost looks genuine. “Well, then,” he says, extending a hand toward her. “How about we change that? Dance with me.”

She stares at his hand like it’s a foreign object, her expression a mix of hesitation and intrigue. “I—I don’t know,” she stammers. “I’m not really a good dancer.”

“Lucky for you,” Satoru says, winking, “neither am I.”

He wiggles his fingers invitingly, his confidence infectious enough to make her laugh again. After a moment’s hesitation, she places her hand in his, letting him gently pull her to her feet.

“See?” he says, leading her toward the edge of the dance floor. “You’re already loosening up.”

She shakes her head, but the smile on her face tells him she’s starting to enjoy herself. As they step into the sea of moving bodies, Satoru glances over his shoulder, his eyes catching Suguru’s across the room. His friend’s expression is a mix of exasperation and amusement, shaking his head as if to say, Of course you couldn’t resist.

Satoru smirks, mouthing, I’m behaving, before turning his attention back to Mayumi, the night stretching ahead with endless possibilities.

This continues on for at least two more hours. Mayumi is sweet and all, but so are her friends Raya, and Mina, and Sera. He’s a little more tipsy than he’d like to be, but he’s not driving tonight. Besides, he’s a lightweight, he should’ve been more calculating on his drink count. Oh well, not like he has work tomorrow. Just some grading and emails from students trying to raise their grade and kissing his ass.

He laughs about it, even with his arm around Ai, his half empty drink in the other. Bright eyes glazed over, cheeks undoubtedly red, and a lazy smile permanently etched on his face. However, his nose twitches subtly, when a sudden scent invades his nostrils. Satoru remembers being praised by his teachers and schoolmates for his outstanding senses that it was almost scary sometimes.

The little thing, he hears. The smallest item, he sees. And the faint scent, he smells.

It’s weak at first, weaving through the layered smells of perfume, alcohol, and sweat. But it’s distinct—a soft, clean scent, almost like fresh linen mixed with something sweet and floral. But it also smells like marshmallows, like a cozy night in front of the fire. His nose twitches again, and his lazy smile falters for just a moment.

The scent is out of place here, where everything feels loud and brash. It’s quiet and grounding, tugging at something deep in his hazy, alcohol-soaked brain. He tilts his head slightly, scanning the room without meaning to, his arm still loosely draped around Ai’s shoulders.

“Satoru?” Ai’s voice pulls him back, light and teasing. She tilts her head to catch his eye, her glossy lips curving into a playful pout. “You still with me?”

“Hmm?” He blinks, looking down at her with an easy grin that feels more automatic than usual. “Of course I am. Where else would I be?”

“Hard to tell sometimes.” She giggles, poking his chest lightly, but he’s already tuning her out.

The scent lingers, wrapping itself around him like a thread pulling taut. It shouldn’t matter. It’s probably just some random person passing by, someone’s perfume or shampoo. But something about it makes his chest tighten, a strange warmth blooming there that he can’t quite place.

Without even realizing it, he’s scanning the room again, his gaze sharper now, cutting through the dim lighting and flashing neon.

“What are you looking for?” Ai asks, her voice tinged with curiosity, but he doesn’t answer.

Because suddenly, he sees her.

You’re standing near the bar, posture reserved, and gaze focused on something—or maybe nothing—in the distance. You’re not really dressed to stand out, outfit simple and understated compared to the glittering ensembles of the crowd. But it’s her, and for some reason, he knows you’re the source of that scent.

Satoru’s grip on his drink tightens, his fingers flexing around the glass as he watches you. You don't look like she belongs here, not in the way others do. It’s like you’re not trying to be seen, not angling for attention. And yet, somehow, you’re all he can see. All he can smell. He’s biting on his lip now.

Ai’s voice snaps him back again, sharper this time. “Satoru, are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively, finally pulling his arm away from her and setting his drink down on a nearby table.

“Where are you going?” she calls after him, but he doesn’t answer.

His feet are already moving, carrying him toward the bar, toward you. The closer he gets, the stronger your sweet and addictive fragrance gets. And Satoru craves sweet things. He’s inhaling and inhaling, like he’s trying to get every trace of it lodged in his nose, in his being. With one final, strong whiff, he leans against the bar next to you. Subtly and smoothly.

You still haven’t noticed him. With a peer down at your drink, its dark fizziness tells him you’re not a drinker.

Play it cool, play it cool. But it’s hard to do that when he wants to shove his face in your hair.

“Not much of a drinker, huh?” Satoru says, his voice smooth and casual, just loud enough to cut through the music.

You glance up, startled at first, then wary. Your eyes meet his—blue, bright, and annoyingly self-assured. He leans on the bar like he owns it, a boyish simper on his face as if he’s done this a thousand times before.

You don’t answer, not right away. Instead, you turn back to your drink, fingers lightly tapping the glass.

Satoru doesn’t let the silence faze him. He tilts his head, studying you with an almost curious expression. “Let me guess,” he continues, undeterred. “It’s root beer. Or maybe cola? You seem like the cola type.”

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of your lips, but you quickly press them into a thin line. He catches it anyway, filing it away as a small victory. “Ah, not a talker, huh?” he presses, his tone light and teasing. “That’s okay. I’m great at one-sided conversations. People say I have a gift for it. I have a lot of them actually.”

You take a slow sip of your drink, clearly trying to ignore him, but he doesn’t move. He leans in just slightly, not enough to invade your space, but enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.

“Come on,” he says after a moment, his grin softening into something almost genuine. “What’s a quiet little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

This time, you turn to him, your eyes narrowing slightly. The question lingers in the air, and for a brief moment, it seems like you might answer.

But instead, you just shrug.

Satoru blinks, caught off guard by your lack of response. Then he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

You glance at him again, and he swears there’s a hint of twinkle in your gaze before you look away.

And just like that, he’s hooked.

“There you are, I thought you ditched me.” A familiar voice suddenly appears, Shoko walking up to your other side and putting her arm around your shoulder. When she spots Satoru next to you, a small frown forms. Pulling you closer to her side slightly. “Are you bothering her?”

He huffs. “Pfft, what? No, I’m making conversation.”

Shoko raises a skeptical brow, her arm tightening around your shoulder as if shielding you from him. “Right. Making conversation,” she echoes, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

You glance between the two, feeling the tension shift in the air. It’s not hostile, but it’s clear Shoko isn’t thrilled with his presence. Satoru smirks, clearly unfazed. He leans casually against the bar, tilting his head in that annoyingly confident way of his. “Relax, Shoko. I’m not here to scare off your friend. I’m just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” she repeats, her frown deepening. “Your version of ‘friendly’ usually ends with someone giving you their number or regretting their life choices.”

He puts a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Ouch. You wound me.”

Shoko rolls her eyes, her fingers lightly drumming against your shoulder as she looks at you. “You okay?” she asks, her voice softer now, her concern evident.

You nod, offering a small smile, though your hands instinctively grip your drink a little tighter.

“See? She’s fine,” Satoru cuts in, flashing Shoko a triumphant grin. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Yet,” Shoko mutters under her breath before pulling you gently away from the bar. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s find a quieter spot.”

Satoru doesn’t try to stop you, but his eyes follow you as Shoko leads you across the room. His smirk lingers, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it—curiosity, maybe even intrigue.

“Friend of yours?” he calls after Shoko, loud enough for you to hear.

She doesn’t look back, but her reply is sharp and to the point. “Off limits, Satoru.”

For the first time that night, his grin falters slightly. Off limits, huh?

Now, he’s really intrigued.

Throughout the time left, he’s busying himself with chatting up other people, even giving a small kiss to this one named Yua (he thinks that’s her name). He’s on his last drink of the night, feeling more breezy by the second. But even as his attempts at having a good rest of his night aren’t exactly failing him, he can’t stop himself from sending glance after glance to the direction Shoko whisked you away to.

You’re with her other friends that are still here, though standing against the wall in an awkward position that makes him laugh to himself.

Shoko’s trying to include you, but it’s not that easy.

The way you stand there, clearly out of your element, is oddly endearing. It’s a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the club and the people surrounding you. Shoko’s doing her best, gesturing animatedly as she talks, trying to pull you into the conversation with her friends. He can tell she’s trying to make you feel included, but it’s not really working. You offer a polite nod or a faint smile every now and then, but your body language screams discomfort.

Another sip. Another glance.

What is it about you that keeps pulling his attention? He’s met plenty of people tonight, charmed them, entertained them, even kissed one. Yet here he is, more drawn to the quiet person hiding against the wall than the vibrant partygoers vying for his attention.

“Earth to Satoru.” Yua’s voice cuts through his thoughts, her hand waving in front of his face.

“Hm?” He turns to her, blinking as if snapping out of a trance.

“You okay? You’ve been zoning out,” she teases, leaning a little closer.

He offers a crooked grin, shrugging. “Yeah, just thinking about how long I’ve been here. Probably time to head out soon.”

Yua pouts but doesn’t press further. “Can I com—“

He downs the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass on the bar before pushing off it. His gaze drifts toward you one last time, watching as you glance down at your drink, clearly counting the seconds until you can leave.

Off limits. Shoko’s words echo in his mind again, but the mischievous glint in his eyes says otherwise. “See you around,” he tosses to Yua as he starts to walk away, the pull toward you stronger than the haze of alcohol in his system.

And you can feel him approach, trying your hardest not to look over because if you don’t, then maybe he won’t actually do it. However, you’re proven wrong. Your lips threaten to downturn into a displeased frown at his persistence. Can’t he take a hint?

Shoko’s too busy taking another shot, because if she wasn’t, no doubt she’d be shooing him away again like he’s a stray dog staring at a piece of meat.

In a sense, he is.

“You like dancing?” He asks, having to lean in closer to your ear in order to be audible over the pounding bass of the throwback music. An opening, you think to yourself. If you say yes, he’ll ask you to dance with him. If you say no, he’ll still probably try to dance with you.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Instinctively, you step a half foot back, awkwardly holding your glass of coke in your hands. The drink feels stabilizing in this environment, giving you something to do with your hands. When you see the grin on his face, it almost makes you want to call back for Shoko like she’ll save you. You shake your head and look back down at the black fizzles.

His head tilts, eyebrow raising up slightly. “You wanna learn?”

Again, you give your head a small shake.

His lips purse into a confused, almost disappointed frown before he dramatically sighs. Leaning up against the wall beside you. You can feel the way he—either accidentally or purposefully—brushes his hand along your arm. Once more, you put a hint of distance between you two.

It feels so awkward, so unbelievably awkward. You’ve seen him converse with practically everyone up here, but why is he so stuck on you? You’re not even reciprocating anything, but he hasn’t left you yet. In your mind, you’re counting down the minutes till when it’s socially acceptable to go back home. In his mind, he’s trying to piece you together. From the looks of it, you’re like a puzzle.

And he’s always loved puzzles.

Finally, he sighs. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low but clear, enough to cut through the noise of the club. “You know, you’re not fooling anyone, right?”

You glance up at him, confusion clouding your features. He doesn’t give you time to respond. “You keep looking for an exit,” he continues, his tone not mocking, but almost thoughtful. “It’s written all over your face. You came to hang out, but now you’re just trying to get through the night without standing out too much.”

You blink, slightly taken aback, suddenly feeling the need to protect yourself. “I’m not—”

He cuts you off with a raised hand. “It’s fine. Everyone does it, really. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know more.” You open your mouth to protest, to dismiss him, but before you can get the words out, he adds with a tilt of his head, “Or maybe you’re just scared of the spotlight?”

The word scared sticks in your mind, gnawing at your thoughts. You’re not scared—are you? Sure, you don’t like being the center of attention, but that’s different. Isn’t it?

Satoru watches the subtle shift in your expression, the way your gaze darts away from his and then back to your drink, and he knows he’s got you. You’re curious, even if you won’t admit it. “Just one dance,” he adds suddenly, his voice teasing but not pushy. “You don’t have to say yes if you really don’t want to. But you’re missing out.” The chuckle that follows leaves you even more curious. He’s teasing, of course. But maybe there’s some truth held to his words.

He’s waiting now, watching you, his grin growing wider at the faintest flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. You’re not the easy pick, and that’s exactly what’s drawing him in.

However, you’re saved by the bell. Almost literally.

“Alright everyone, Speakeasy is beginning its closing! Please head out of the nearest exit! Thank you and we’re open again tomorrow, same time!”

The voice of either the manager, DJ, whoever runs the club emits from all the speakers. You breathe a small sigh of relief, drinking the rest of your coke and placing the glass on the table. Satoru’s hand reaches out, as if contemplating touching your shoulder, but you’re already alerting Shoko of your departure.

“I’m so glad you came, did you have fun?” Shoko asks, drunkenly smiling and hugging you. When Satoru hears your lowered chuckle, a weird punch-like force is delivered to his gut.

“Mhm, thank you for inviting me.”

“You know you’re always welcome.” She pulls back, examining your face. “Driving back?”

You nod in response.

“Okay, be safe. Text me when you get back home.”

“You too.”

Her smile turns more genuine, planting a platonic kiss to your cheek before letting you go. You zip your jacket up, adjusting your purse strap on your shoulder and head to the stairs.

“Hey.”

God damn it. You hesitate for a moment whether to keep walking or answer him, but you’re too kind-hearted for blatant ignorance. So, you look over your shoulder to see the white haired man that’s been pretty much bugging you this entire night. He steps closer, hands shoved in his pockets. “Before you go, I’m Satoru.”

And now he’s introducing himself to you. You feel even more wary. You don’t want him to think this means anything, but you came out for a reason. To attempt to break from your hardened shell. Besides, it’s just your name. “Y/N.”

The corner of his lip tilts up, revealing a small dimple on his cheek. The sight makes you warm. “I like that.”

Satoru studies you for a moment, his eyes playful but softened, a sharp contrast to the usual teasing energy that surrounded him. You can’t help but notice the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to read every part of you. But the warmth that spreads through your chest at his compliment is undeniable. You didn’t expect it. Most people would’ve just moved on by now, given how you’ve been brushing him off. “Y/N,” he repeats, his voice low and almost contemplative. “Nice name. Fits you.”

You can feel the slight tension in the air, that quiet moment between you two, and despite your better judgment, something about him is… disarming. His presence, the easy confidence he exudes, is like a soft pull on your composure. It makes you hesitate longer than you should. After internal debate, you nod briefly and continue walking back to the stairs. Again, his voice calls out to you. “By the way, I love the way you smell.”

Your steps falter, face contorting into confusion. What an odd compliment for someone you don’t know. Without turning around, you tell him, “Thank you.” Hurrying your steps so he doesn’t try to stop you again and with that, you’re out of his sight.

Even though you only muttered a few sentences to him, Satoru feels a strange sense of curiosity. Curiosity mingled with determination. He smiles to himself, drinking the last bits of his drink before heading off too. A thought reverberates throughout his mind like a drum, even when Suguru is patting his shoulder goodbye.

He wonders how long it’ll take to get a girl like you in his bed.

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areyouwell · 6 months ago

Text

Sciophobia

Noun: An extreme fear of shadows. An adult or child with Sciophobia may experience extreme stress and anxiety in everyday life due to the nature of light and shadow.

Ch.2

Ch.1 <---

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: the most DISGUSTING, tooth-achingly sweet fluff, like candyfloss-style shit. i vomited twice writing it and once again proofreading it. they make pasta together for TWO THOUSAND WORDS so if that ain't yer thing im sorry the good stuff will start soon. and by that i mean body horror. i threw up writing that for a completely different reason...

Word count: 11k (strap in and strap on folks)

A/N: as mentioned in the warnings, this is almost pure fluff. sure there's MC rage so strong my timbers were shivered but other than that it's mostly fluff. i want you guys to know, i am setting us all up for failure, because this WILL get sad. but it'll get hot first, then downright filthy, the a little disgusting before it gets sad, we got a while to go so booties ch.2 LFG

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit

“Maybe just try… concentrating harder?”

It took all of your willpower not to cross the few steps it would take to punch Scott’s lights out. Why the Professor assigned him to help with your training, you’d never know. Sure, it wasn’t like you were constantly at each other’s throats like he and Logan seemed to be, but you never exactly saw eye to eye either. Scott was too… neat, for you. He liked rules too much, always following what his head told him he should do, rather than following his heart or gut. It was infuriating on missions, and you’d had plenty of arguments about the correct course of action before he became the de facto leader whether you liked it or not.

That was shortly before you went away, so you didn’t really have much time to experience the dictatorship of Scott Summers, and now you were back, you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to.

“Ya know what Scott? I’d never thought of doing that, thanks!” you bit sarcastically, sweat beading along your brow. You’d been at this for well over an hour now, hour two fast approaching with no progress. You’d successfully shadow-walked, though Cyclops noted your hesitation to do so. But could he blame you? The idea of shadow-walking and then suddenly not having the strength to pull yourself back together, or whatever it was you did, was quite frankly, terrifying.

Scott sighed, placing a hand on his hip and running the other through his hair. “Alright, take ten, I’ll talk to the Professor.” He said, already making his way towards the iron doors. You let loose a frustrated breath, bracing your hands across the back of your neck. This was hopeless. Utterly hopeless. What’s worse, is that there was no proof you could actually do those things. No proof that was the Professor was saying was fucking true.

You were glad the back wall was cast in shadow as you stormed across the floor, sending your fist careening into the metalwork, instantly regretting your outburst when the crack of your split knuckles rang out louder than the punch itself. Clamping your lips between your teeth to stop yourself from crying out, you let yourself breathe through the pain, savouring it just slightly. It was good. Pain was good. It reminded you how you weren’t just a pile of shadows wandering aimlessly through the air yet. You doubted you could feel a broken hand if you didn’t have a hand to feel with.

Turning your back to the wall, you slid down to the floor, head buried between your knees with your arms casing you in, throbbing hand gripping your opposite shoulder tightly. You wouldn’t cry. You would. Not. Cry. That wasn’t you. You don’t cry. Since when did you cry?

This was how Logan found you. He’d been stuck in a meeting with Xavier and Storm all morning, going over the blueprints of the latest rescue mission the team would embark on. Though in all honesty, he was barely listening, his thoughts disobediently drifting back to you. The memory of your smile, the teasing lilt in your voice, the way your arms felt wrapped around his neck, the scent of your hair invading his heightened nose. He wondered how you were getting on with Scott, and he pitied the fact you were having to do this with Scott. That was until the man of the hour walked through the doors, disrupting the meeting and finally releasing him back into the world.

It’s no wonder his feet led him straight to you, you’d been on his mind that much. So to see you like this, curled up against the opposite wall, your hand an angry red, it tugged at his heart.

You didn’t seem to notice him as he crossed the room, only looking up when he kicked the gym mat with his foot. There was that smile again. The one that didn’t reach your eyes and only serve to fool people who were fucking idiots into thinking you were okay.

The last person you expected to see walk through those doors was Logan. Last you’d heard, he was stuck in a meeting with Charles and Ororo. Scott was initially furious he’d been asked to help develop your mutation instead of intent ‘crucial strategy meetings’ so he called them, but he soon lightened up when you not-so-subtly reminded him it’s because Charles thought he was the best option to help you.

You sighed heavily, bracing your good hand on your knee as you rose to your feet. For Logan to see you in such a sorry state wasn’t high on your list of priorities. You were pretty sure it wasn’t on that list at all.

“Not goin’ well?” he asked softly, and you had to grit your teeth to stop yourself from tearing up. You watched his eyes flicker from your face to your hand, thick brows pinching in concern. You followed his line of sight, not that you needed to, you could fucking feel your knuckles pulsing fire up your arm.

“Uh, no, not really. I’d love to say I did this punching Scott, but he left before I could, so I took it out on the wall instead.” You half smiled, and Logan found himself blowing out a huff of laughter. Even in this state, in this mindset, you could still find humour.

Sinking your hand into the shadows across the wall behind you, you felt the familiar tingle of, what you now know was your body breaking apart, before the slight itch of pulling it back together as you dragged it back out, good as new.

Logan thought for a moment, hazel eyes flicking from you to the shadows behind you. “Have you tried–”

“If you’re about to say ‘concentrating harder’ I might have to hurt you.” You interrupted, much to his amusement.

“I’m assumin’ that’s what Scott said?”

“Word for fucking word,” you said with a slight lopsided smile. Now that one reached your eyes.

Logan took a few steps forward, now borderline pinning you against the wall. If it wasn’t for his hearing, he would have missed the way your breath hitched slightly, the slight shudder in your exhale. He chalked it down to your apprehension toward your situation. He had to. Giving himself hope like that just led to a shit load of hurt.

“What I was goin’ to say, was have ya tried from in there?” he raised a brow, his eyes looking past you and at the wall behind, and you had to take a minute to remember what you were talking about, his proximity all but throwing all and any thought out the window. It was achingly familiar to yesterday in the kitchen.

“You might be onto something…” you breathed when you remembered how to form words. Now you were thinking about it, he could be right. Why on earth were you trying to call the shadows to you, when you could drag them out with you? However, the idea of once again disappearing into shadow didn’t fill you with the same sense of freedom it once did.

And Logan could see it. The hesitation, apprehension. You’d told him you were scared last night, but this was the first time he’d seen it. “I’ll be right here, yeah?” Fuck the way you looked at him shattered his heart. You wanted to be brave, you wanted to have the same sense of wonder you always did when it came to your mutation. He looked at the clench of your jaw, the flare of your nostrils as you nodded.

“Alright… don’t go anywhere.” you half-joked, sliding your hands down the cool wall behind you, feeling your skin tingle at the mere idea of disappearing into the darkness.

“Where would I go? You’re right here.” Logan responded, placing his index finger on the centre of your forehead and pushing ever so slightly. It gave you enough courage to fall back into the darkness, feeling the release of those threads holding your corporeal body together.

Logan wasn’t really sure why he said that and he hoped to fuck you were too nervous about this whole thing to actually register what he’d said. He breathed out a sigh of relief when he watched you fold into the shadow, taking a few steps back and looking at his watch. Any longer than three minutes and he’ll start to think this was a really bad idea. Though, he probably should have told you that before you disappeared.

Fuck.

It was always a strange sensation. Your consciousness was still intact, but the rest of your body had disappeared, scattered into a million different pieces. Probably billions. You couldn’t see, but you didn’t need to. You could sense. Sense the layout of the room. Sense where the shadows begin and where they end. Everything became nothing, and it was freedom. Quieting your thoughts, you concentrated. Concentrated on pulling. It was the same itching sensation you felt when leaving the shadows, except you tried to ground yourself.

Ground yourself in a place that had literally no ground.

This was fucking impossible.

You felt yourself slipping, the shadows around you not knowing what it was you were asking. Did the shadows have consciousness too? You didn’t know. Who fucking knew? And you didn’t fucking care. You tried to concentrate again, pulling against those threads you used to bring yourself from one place to the other toward you.

And only succeeding in moving again. Walking. This was no fucking different to what you’ve always done. Just moving from one point to the next. You’d already fucking mastered that.

But at least one good thing had come from this. You weren’t afraid anymore.

You were fucking angry.

Your consciousness writhed like a ball of angry vipers, pulling at all and any threads you could sense around you, flicking from one place to another with no rhyme or reason, no direction.

If you could scream, you would have done. If you could lash out, you would have done. Rage rippled through your senses, those threads around you thrashing and flailing. Useless. Fucking useless. Maybe this was the fate you deserved. Disappearing into nothing, being nothing. Maybe you did deserve it.

But you wouldn’t fucking accept it. Not yet.

This is “–fucking POINTLESS!” you roared, stepping from the shadow, your body itching all over, buzzing with adrenaline, your back almost burning. Your eyes took time to adjust to the light again, but you were too furious to register anything. “What’s the fucking point? Nothing works! I can’t pull them toward me, I can’t pull them with me, this is fucking stupid!” you continued your tirade, almost feeling the physical weight of your failure heavy upon your shoulders. “I can’t fucking do it, so why bother trying? It’s been a day and I’m already sick of this shit!” you heaved, breath searing your newly formed lungs, sending shockwaves of fire through your shoulder blades. You couldn’t remember a time when you’d been this angry. “If this stupid fucking mutation doesn’t kill me I’ll do it myself I swear to fucking god and what the FUCK are you smiling at Logan?!” You bellowed, your eyes finally registering what they were seeing.

Logan had probably the world’s most gorgeous smile, and you wished you weren’t too pissed off to appreciate it. But before he had time to answer, Scott and Charles entered the room, Scott dropped a mug of what looked like freshly brewed coffee straight onto the floor, the shattering of the ceramic lingering in the air as the room fell deadly silent.

“What?” you asked, now slightly fearful as the three men peered at you, each with a different expression. Scott seemed utterly horrified, his jaw slack and agape. Charles looked almost smug, a knowing smile pulling at his lips. And Logan?

Logan just grinned at you, arms folded across his chest. “You did it,” he whispered, nodding to what you thought was the wall behind you. Your eyes lingered on his as you turned your head, finally looking at what everyone else in the room seemed to be seeing.

Honestly, you were fucking shocked you didn’t notice. At least now the burning in your shoulder blades had an explanation.

Two broad, rippling wings of pure shadow spread wide from your back, the darkness almost pulsing along with your rapid heartbeat. It felt good, and you noted the lack of pressure about your body. Those threads that seemed constantly under strain had loosened, seemingly constantly fed by the shadows at your back.

You slowly pulled at the strings, watching the wings move and shift with your intentions. Your fury dissolved as you watched in complete awe, along with the three others in the room. They folded close to your back and you felt the buzzing of energy against your leg, before you extended them again to their full size, tips grazing either side of the room.

“Wh… H-how?” Scott managed to stutter, taking a cautious step forward. You looked from your shadows to Cyclops.

“It, uh, it was Logan’s idea. Pull them out with me rather than trying to pull them towards me…” you were still reeling, slowly extending your fingers before trying to move the rest of your body. You didn’t know how much concentration it was taking to keep them intact, and you were a little afraid of letting them slip. Your breath came heavy as if you’d run around the estate at least four times.

Logan looked back at Scott, unable to help his ‘fuck you’ brow raise. And to his satisfaction, Scott clicked his tongue in irritation. He turned back to you when he heard your slight laugh, clearly having noticed the silent exchange between them.

“How did you even know about this?” Scott asked accusingly.

“She told me.” Logan retorted as if it was the most obvious response on the planet. Scott just stood there in shock.

“She… she told you? She told you. As in, the one over there?” Cyclops pointed at you and you flipped him off in return.

“Yeah? Who else would we be talkin’ ‘bout?”

“It’s just, she doesn’t tend to… do that,”

“She is right fucking here!” you held your arms up, gesturing to yourself in a way that thankfully returned the boys’ attention back to the situation at hand.

“Yeah well, this is all well and good,” Scott continued, crouching now to pick up the larger pieces of the shattered mug, “but how do you release them?” he finished.

He had a point. You couldn’t wander around the school with two giant wings stuck to your back, as much as you wanted to. How would you get through the doorways? Xavier wheeled forward until he was next to Logan, his face now much more serious.

“Carefully. Release it too quickly and the threads could go with them,”

“Wouldn’t that just mean she would be back in the shadow?” Logan asked, slight concern lacing his baritone voice. There was a catch here, and every single one of you knew it.

“Ordinarily yes, however, she cannot disappear into her own shadow. If she releases those threads anywhere other than back to its original form, there’s a risk of her disappearing with it and getting stuck,” He explained, to nobody’s understanding. You knew you couldn’t disappear into your own shadow, you’d tried before and your body simply wouldn’t let you.

“So wait… I can pull the shadow with me but have to return it to where it was, essentially?” you asked, slowly so that your question could be understood, even by yourself. Charles nodded, and you took a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself.

Logan couldn’t help but feel partly to blame for this. He’d encouraged you to take this step, to try alternate methods of developing your mutation, and now he had, you were stuck like this until you felt sure you could release it carefully. Shit.

‘She made it this far because of you. We have a chance at changing her fate because of you, Logan. You cannot regret that.’ It was always jarring when the Professor found his way into his head, and it wasn’t the least bit soothing. What did ease him a little, however, was your slight reassuring smile, renewed with confidence.

You could see he was battling with guilt, terrified that he may have endangered you. But you could do this. You’d already managed to achieve something you never thought you could today, what’s one more miracle?

“Hooookay, let’s try this… carefully, right?” it was a rhetorical question because honestly? You were a little scared, and stalling seemed to give you time to collect your thoughts and calm your slightly stuttering heart.

“Carefully,” Charles instructed, and you nodded once before taking another deep breath. Holding it for a few moments, you tightened the threads you hoped to fuck were holding you together, keeping them in place before blowing out the breath, releasing your connection to the wings behind your back. You felt them bleed down your shoulders, shivering slightly as the shadows snaked down your legs and back against the wall behind you, returning to their original state.

You’d closed your eyes at some point, honestly, you couldn’t remember when. You were scared to open them, scared to see if you’d fucked anything up, if parts of your body were just completely shadow, or whether you had accidentally grown multiple limbs or something. You knew your mind was running away from you, but you couldn’t help it, as ridiculous as it felt.

Logan smiled slightly to himself as he watched the shadows wash away and return to the wall, and that inward smile broadened when he noticed you weren’t moving, eyes clenched shut, your hands balled into fists, your shoulders tensed and hunched. He stepped forward and up to you, gently bracing his hands on either side of your neck, thumbs angling your jaw up a little. Your soft gasp didn’t escape his ears.

“Y’alright?” He asked, eyes searching your face before finding your own gaze, your lids having fluttered open. You visibly relaxed, one hand that was previously balled into a tight fist now gently sliding up his wrist, resting atop his forearm. Your touch was electric, fingertips sending shivers down his spine.

“Fine, I think,” you responded, gliding your nails through the hair on his arm. It was an absent response to his touch. You wanted to be closer to him, to bury your head in the crook of his neck and breathe in his pinewood scent. His breath was a mix of mint and tobacco, and you wondered if his lips had a permanent hint of whiskey if you were to taste them, having been told by a grumbling Jean that was who the hidden, half-empty bottle in the cupboard belonged to.

You instantly mourned the loss of his touch when he stepped back, though you were grateful he did. You’d been dangerously close to kissing him, and whilst you still wanted to, perhaps not without an audience of Charles and Scott.

“How are you feeling?” You blinked when the Professor addressed you directly, having forgotten what living in reality was like for a few moments. Nodding along with an answer you hadn’t voiced yet, you grinned along with a deep, contorting rumble of your stomach.

“Apparently, starving.” A chuckle escaped your lips and you braced a hand against your stomach in an attempt to soothe away the uncomfortable feeling of hunger.

“I think that’s enough for today. Logan, could you take this one to the kitchen? Make sure she’s fed.” There was a knowing look in Professor Xavier’s eye that Logan wasn’t sure he liked. Sure, he may have just lovingly held your face whilst bringing you back from the brink of terror, but that didn’t mean there was anything going on between the two of you. You met yesterday!

“Sure.” he shrugged, trying his damnest to sound nonchalant about it. You stretched your arms up above your head, popping your elbows slightly as you followed Logan from the room, feeling a thousand times lighter than you did when you entered two hours ago. Honestly, you couldn’t believe you’d succeeded.

The doors closed behind you with a soft swish, and you paused to appreciate the man walking ahead of you. You’d known each other for less than twenty-four hours, and yet you’d tear the fabric of the universe apart to ensure his safety. You knew almost nothing about him, and yet you felt the strangest pull towards him, a yearning to be around him, to be near him. It was infuriating, but so fucking exciting at the same time. Could this maybe be something? Did he feel this weird connection too? Or was it just your delusions working overtime? Honestly, hard to say.

“Take a picture, it’d last longer.”

You snapped from your daze to notice he’d turned back to you, realising you weren’t following him. Flashing him a broad smile, refusing to feel any kind of embarrassment that he’d caught you practically staring at him, you jogged a little to catch up, effortlessly falling into step beside him.

“Wanted to thank you,” you looked up at him through the corner of your eye, catching his own gaze.

“What for?”

“Everything. Logan, I’ve known you for less than a full day and you’ve already helped me more than people I’ve known practically my whole life. The Professor excluded. So yeah, thanks.” You shrugged, hitting the button on the lift to take you both back up to the ground floor. The doors closed and you leaned against the back wall, crossing one ankle over the other.

“You need better friends if you’re thankin’ me for anythin’. Wouldn’t anyone else do the same?” he asked, mirroring your stance against the adjacent wall, folding his arms across his chest. You snorted a laugh, and he found himself smiling at you.

“Yeah, friends would, but like I said, we haven’t even known each other a full twenty-four hours yet.”

Logan cocked a brow, his smile morphing back to a small smirk. “Well pardon me, princess, I thought we were friends.”

You rolled your eyes, and Logan had a horrendous feeling he’d misread the entire situation between you. “I mean like, lifelong friends, asshole. People I’ve known ever since I can remember. Not people I met yesterday,” you finished, gently kicking his foot with your own. Logan straightened up as the lift slowed to reach the ground floor, softly flicking your forehead in response to your kick, causing you to bat his hand away.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? You made an impact,” he shrugged, and you grinned.

“Oh yeah?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, bub. I’m just sayin’ you show up after not existin’ and immediately cause trouble.” he watched your expression shift from mischievous to a sheepish pout, unable to beat the trouble-maker allegations. He sighed slightly. “But hey, maybe I like trouble.” The doors opened for the both of you to leave, Logan being the first to make his exit. Though, you stayed behind for a beat.

“Or maybe trouble just likes you,” you retorted with that same lopsided smile he’d come to admire so much, before pushing back against the wall to join him.

“Yeah well, ‘m’not mad about it either way,” he mumbled, and you thought better about teasing him for it. You imagined this was about as close as he was gonna get to voicing genuine care for you, so you let it drop, simply humming a thoughtful smile in response.

You don’t know why you were expecting the kitchen to have a few people in it, since classes were currently going on. Maybe it was due to the fact you hadn’t exactly settled back into the life of a teacher yet. Not that you were a teacher anymore, the man currently rifling through the snacks cupboard had seen to that. You found, with no small degree of surprise, that you missed it. You missed teaching combat and strategy, you missed taking the kids through training drills and exercise routines. You missed helping them hone their mutations, with Jean’s help, or Ororo’s help. Sure, the worry of them getting hurt always used to play on your mind, but now you were back, you realised that the worry was worth the fulfilment.

Taking a seat at the table, you propped your chin up on the heel of your palm, watching as Logan crouched to one of the cupboards below the counter. You didn’t pretend like you weren’t enjoying the view. He really did look fantastic for one hundred and thirty. In peak physical condition.

“I’d say take a picture again but I’d really rather you didn’t,” you were too focused shamelessly staring at his ass you hadn’t noticed he was peering at you over his shoulder with a not-so-subtle smirk. You flashed one right back.

You were coming to like that phrase. “I wouldn’t be opposed,” you retorted, wiggling your brows up and down. Logan snorted a laugh.

“You flirt with everyone like this?”

You shook your head, moving to rest your chin on top of your now interlaced fingers. “Nah, only with the ones over ninety. I have a thing for older men,” you winked and he rolled his eyes.

“Stop,” but judging from his expression, Logan was finding this just as amusing as you were. But as much as you wanted to continue, your curiosity got the better of you.

“What’re you looking for?” you asked, standing from your seat at the table and skirting around the wood to sit on the edge closer to him, peering down over his shoulder.

“There used to be a packet of insta-noodles in here somewhere but I think one of the kids got to it first,” he explained, and you gasped dramatically, to the point where he actually looked a little concerned over his shoulder. “What?”

“Insta-noodles? My brother in Christ, please tell me you were not about to give me instant fucking noodles?” you felt something in you die at the thought, and something else died at his affirming nod.

“Yeah, what's wrong with that?” he asked, genuinely perplexed by your reaction. It was just noodles for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like he’d just offered to kick a baby. He blinked at your barked laugh of disbelief, watching as you hopped off the table and shooed him aside.

“Step back fossil–”

“Hey!”

“and let me do this. We’re going to actually have food. Like, real food. Take a seat or watch and learn.” You shot him a look over your shoulder, before gathering whatever ingredients you needed. Logan dragged one of the chairs back from the table, taking a seat to watch whatever it was you were about to make.

You started by dicing an onion, a pan with oil already heating up on the gas stove, and it took all of three minutes for Logan to be impressed by your knife skills. You almost wielded the thing like a dagger, flipping it this way and that, before scooping half the pile of onion and dropping it into a plastic bowl. The other half you scraped into the pan, and Logan couldn’t help but savour the sound of the sizzle and the smell of food. Suddenly, he too was starving.

You crossed to the fridge, rummaging around the bottom shelf before pulling out a tub of minced beef, and a packet of mushrooms. Closing the door with your hip, you lay the ingredients out on the counter, pulling open the cupboard above your head to retrieve a box of breadcrumbs and a carton of eggs. Though he saw you pause briefly, turning your head back to him.

“You’re not vegetarian or vegan, right? Probably should have asked yesterday,” your question made him laugh, and you tilted your head to the side. “What?”

“Do I look vegan to you?”

You stuck your tongue in your cheek to stop yourself from smiling. No, no he didn’t. But at the same time, you’d made a similar mistake in the past. And it still haunts you to this day.

“Just answer the question, Lo’” you grit, placing a hand on your hip. Logan blinked, trying his best to get past the nickname you’d just given him. Usually, nicknames were his thing, having about a million different ones for a million different circumstances. He barely managed to shake his head, earning himself a smile of gratitude from you, before you turned back to your task at hand and he could settle himself with his brow pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

You crouched again, rifling through the cupboard with cans. Pushing a stack of soup to the side, you froze solid, your eyes blowing wide as your hand shook at what you saw. Another mug, though someone had gone to great lengths to hide this one. Your fingertips grazed the faded image, a photograph of a younger-looking you and a girl with fair features, her braids tied back at the top of her head. Her smile was brilliant. Dazzling. It took you a moment to will your blurring vision away, before inhaling deeply and bringing out the chopped tomatoes you’d been looking for, setting it to the side. Taking a moment to push her from your mind whilst stirring the slowly browning onions, you then cross to fill the kettle, flicking the switch to start boiling. Logan blew out a breath, having recovered from his heart stuttering and finally went back to watching you cook.

It was calming, almost hypnotic, the way you moved about the kitchen. Folding the onions in with the beef mince, breadcrumbs and two eggs. Only, it just occurred to him he had no fucking clue what you were making. Standing from his seat, he moved over to lean his shoulder against the fridge door, now having a clear line of sight to watch what you were doing.

“What’re you making?” he asked, smiling slightly as you startled. He didn’t mean to scare you, he just honestly didn’t realise how deep into the process you were.

“Meatball Marinara,” you answered, your fingers incorporating the ingredients in the bowl until you were left with a sticky, meaty lump you could form balls out of.

“From scratch?” he asked, eyes slightly wide. You’d spoken at length about your cooking last night, and how you’d learned, and it wasn’t that he didn’t believe you, it was more that he didn’t quite realise how impressive it was until he was here, watching you.

He swore, your smile could start and end wars.

“It’s pretty quick and easy, to be honest,” you explained, eyes never leaving your task despite feeling his own trained on you. You grabbed the salt from the spice rack, twisting the grinder a few times until you felt it was right. That was what a lot of cooking was for you. Just feeling. When you felt something was done, you’d take it from the oven. When you felt something needed a little more seasoning, you’d sprinkle some paprika in for an extra kick. Nothing was ever done by the book.

It’s mainly why you didn’t exactly get on with Scott.

“Huh…” Logan responded, watching how you’d started to take small portions of the beef and roll it into little balls, placing them onto a separate plate.

“Could you give the onions a quick stir? ‘ve got meat hands,” you wiggled your slightly shining fingers in his face, and he jerked back, much to your amusement. Logan fought the urge to flick your forehead again, settling on ignoring your evil little laugh and instead focussing on his critical mission of stirring onions.

“D’ya cook like this when you were away?” he asked, finding an insane amount of domestic comfort in cooking with you. He saw you shake your head out of his peripheral vision.

“Nah, didn’t have time, plus I was moving around a lot. Usually, it was quicker and easier things than this,”

“Like insta-noodles?”

You could fucking hear his smirk, and you managed to stop yourself from cracking an egg over his head. “No. Never insta-noodles. Ever.”

You’d finished making little meatballs and had started splitting apart a bulb of garlic, crushing the cloves beneath your knife before peeling off the skin and dicing them before dropping them into the pan he was still stirring. His eyes closed involuntarily as you leaned across him, once again your scent hitting him like a freight train, only this time your shampoo had blended with the sweet, slightly musky smell of your sweat. It was enough to drive him fucking feral.

“Keep stirring that, or it’ll stick to the bottom and burn,” you instructed absently, halfway through chopping up a few mushrooms before leaning across him again to drop them into the pan as well. Logan held the spoon like it was his lifeline, knuckles draining white as you moved around him to retrieve another pan.

“Yes ma’am,” he responded, and you snorted another laugh. He really had to pull himself together.

You poured the boiled water from the kettle into the new pan, lighting the burner and setting it on a high heat, bringing the water roiling before grinding salt for what Logan felt was far too long. He wondered vaguely if you had high sodium levels, or how your blood pressure was. You waited again for the water to come back to a boil, before placing a sizeable amount of spaghetti into the pan, putting slight pressure on the tips so the ends would soften and bend faster in the water.

Placing the lid over the pan, you went to check your watch. Your watch that you weren’t wearing. Fucking goddamnit. You looked around for a clock, before noticing Logan’s wrist.

Logan’s soul nearly left his body at the way you grabbed his hand, twisting his wrist to make a note of the time. You weren’t exactly rough, but it was assertive enough for him to think twice about the kinds of things he was into…

Wait, what the fuck was he talking about?

“You could’ve just asked the time,” he muttered, tugging his wrist back almost possesively.

“Hm?” you blinked. In truth, you’d been utterly lost in how good this felt. How right it felt to just do average, mundane tasks with him. “Oh, right, yeah, sorry. Could you tell me when ten minutes have passed?” you asked, almost instantly busying yourself again by carefully dropping the meatballs into the pan he was stirring. “Gotta brown off the meat first…” you instructed softly, almost absently. But he listened, slowing his movements. Your resulting smile was radiant. “Hey, you’re a natural!”

Logan raised a brow. “I’m stirring a pan, bub. Not exactly gourmet style.” You laughed, gently hitting his bicep with the back of your hand, only to stop in your tracks, shaking your knuckles out.

“Ow! I thought you said your bones were made of adamantium,” you exclaimed, rubbing over the back of your hand with your other palm. In truth, it didn’t really hurt, but you just wanted to make a point because nobody has the right to be this built. It was insane.

Logan bit his tongue to stop from smiling, his eyes sliding from that pan to you. “Just the result of a good workout regime,” he shrugged as if it were nothing special. In reality, he knew he looked good. He put a lot of work into his physique, and whilst his mutation did help with that, it was still nice to be complimented on it once in a while.

“Huh… you don’t say,” you responded, cracking open the can of tomatoes once the meatballs had browned to your satisfaction. The metal sizzled slightly as you poured in the sauce, setting the can to the side and retrieving a few basil leaves from the window box on the opposite side of the room. Logan hadn’t noticed it before, remarkably, and though having no experience with plants in recent history, something told him he wouldn’t have too much trouble identifying what they were.

It was a weird feeling. Remembering something he didn’t actually remember. Though it had been the story of his life for the last few years.

You dropped the leaves into the sauce, leaving him to stir the pot whilst you brought out two sets of plates and cutlery and set them on the counter, angling your head so you could catch sight of the time from the watch on his wrist. He would have just told you if he didn’t think you were deriving some kind of joy from attempting to read his watch sideways.

Removing the lid from the pan, you scooped up a single piece of spaghetti, blowing away the steam before dropping it into your hand when you thought it was cool enough. You shot him a quick look Logan could only describe as pure mischief, before throwing the spaghetti against the backsplash of the stove. He watched as the pasta hit the wall with a sick squelch, before sliding down the tiles.

He looked back at you, and you almost instantly burst into fits of laughter. “The fuck was that for?” he asked, his brows furrowed in perplexion.

You managed to recover from laughing, though hiccuped through a few giggles. “You can tell whether spaghetti’s done by throwing it at the wall. If it sticks, it’s raw, if it slides, it’s done,” you exclaimed, tilting your head to get another look at the time, noting that those ten minutes were up.

“Really?”

“Nah, that’s an old wive’s tale. Honestly, it’s just kinda fun to pelt spaghetti at a wall and call it ‘cooking’.” You sent him a wink, and Logan shook his head in fond disbelief. He felt like he’d seen so many sides to you in the last twenty-four hours alone. And if he was being completely honest with himself, he wanted to see more. He wanted to see how many sides to you there were, and whether he would like them all as much as he liked the ones he’s already seen. Your fury included.

“Your ten minutes it up, by the way,” he reminded you, and though he had a feeling you already knew, you nodded in thanks anyway, removing the boiling pan from the stove and flicking off the burner, the blue gas flames retreated to nothing. Skirting around him to the sink, you tipped out the water, using the lid of the pan to stop the rest of the spaghetti from falling with it. You shook the pan slightly, shaking out any pieces that had stuck together, before setting about separating the contents into two portions, one slightly bigger than the other.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, leaning back to take a look at the sauce. If Logan had to grit his teeth after smelling your scent one more time his jaw would fucking snap. You really weren’t making this easy on him, were you? Part of him wondered if you were doing it deliberately, but there was no way of you knowing about his heightened senses. Unless you’d asked around, which, with everything you’ve had going on since you got back, he sincerely doubted.

“Looks good to me, but I’m not the expert here,” he handed you the spoon, stepping to the side for you to take over. Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and he tried his fucking best to ignore the slight buzz you’d left.

Lifting the spoon to your lips, you sampled what you’d been slaving over for the last twenty minutes, smiling slightly as the sweet, tarty flavours burst on your tongue. It was a new sensation for Logan to wish he was a spoon, but here he was.

“Perfect!” you beamed, dipping the spoon back in the sauce and turning to him, your palm cupped beneath the wood to prevent anything from spilling onto the floor. “Wanna try it?”

Logan shrugged, stepping forward and allowing you to bring the spoon to his lips. Your eyes never left his, the tips of your fingers grazing the coarse stubble beneath his chin, but you didn’t move away. He struggled to focus on anything other than how close you were to him, the feeling of your fingers on his jaw, your breath fanning the lower half of his face. Your hopeful eyes waiting eagerly for his verdict, searching his expression for any kind of clue. And he was suddenly afraid of what you’d find there.

Stepping back, he pretended like he was savouring what you’d fed him, and whilst it was fucking delicious, it didn’t compare to how he imagined your lips tasting. Or anything else, for that matter.

“‘S’really good,” he managed, and you immediately looked as if you weren’t waiting with bated breath for his approval.

“Isn’t it? Fuck I’m good,” your laugh was more akin to an evil mastermind than someone who’d just made meatballs, but Logan would be hard-pressed to find another time in his life when he felt this at peace with the world. At least, not in the life he could remember. “Sit, I’ll bring it over,” you instructed, removing a larger, metal spoon from the drawer, which he took off you the moment he could.

“Pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way ‘round, bub. You cooked,” he glanced pointedly to the seat you’d just gestured to. But clearly, you were, amongst many other things, incredibly stubborn.

“Not sure how you worked that one out, you cooked too,” you folded your arms across your chest, setting your jaw.

“Yeah, barely. Sit your ass down,” he pointed to the chair with the spoon in his hand, but you still refused, now leaning against the counter as if you could get any further away from the table. Logan sighed heavily, placing the spoon down again. “Didn’t wanna have to do this…” he muttered, and you didn’t have the chance to ask what he meant by this before his arms were around your waist and you were lifted effortlessly off the ground.

All breath fled from your lungs. Your hands instantly fell to his shoulders, nails clinging on for dear life as he carried you to that godforsaken chair. His grip around your body tightened as you attempted to wriggle free from his arms, laughing breathlessly, exhilaration coursing through your body. Only, the moment he tried to set you down, you did a complete 180 and wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist.

“Let go,” his words were muffled against your neck as he bent almost double, and you leaned back until you were practically hovering above the chair.

“Seemed like a good idea a minute ago, huh?” You arched a cocky brow and were met with an expression mirroring your own.

“So you gonna cling to me forever? That your genius plan?”

“If that's what it takes,”

“Let go,” the way he said your name almost had you falling to the floor, your muscles suddenly growing weak. But you stayed strong, out of nothing but principal at this point. He wasn’t even holding you anymore, you were clinging on through sheer willpower alone. For the sake of being stubborn.

“You made this bed, now lie in it,” you responded haughtily, refusing to look into his irritated façade.

“That doesn’t make any goddamn sense,” he growled, and you fucking melted. That wasn’t fucking fair, and judging by the steadily growing smirk, he knew it. His hands gripped both your calves, successfully peeling you from his waist whilst you were distracted. You had no choice but to let your legs fall to the floor, catching yourself on the chair behind you, much to his triumphant grin.

“You cheated!” you gaped, sitting cross-legged on the seat. Logan barely looked over his shoulder as he started spooning the sauce onto the two piles of pasta. All that over fucking spaghetti. And you didn’t even regret it a little.

“How’d I cheat?” he asked, though you were aware he knew full well how. And you were right. He did know. Of course he knew. He’d used that specific voice countless times before. Usually under very different circumstances. He just wanted to hear you say it. Hear you say how it affected you.

But, true to form, you were stubborn.

“You’re stronger than I am,” you sighed, glaring heated daggers into the back of his head. You wanted to be petty, to stand up and take the spoon from him again, but in all honesty, you don’t think you’d survive another round of ‘sit on the fucking chair’.

Logan looked at you over his shoulder, his eyes swirling with knowing, and you stuck your tongue in your cheek and looked away, not giving him any satisfaction of confirming what he was thinking. You’d been so caught up in avoiding eye contact, that you almost jumped when he set the plate down in front of you, setting his own at the opposite place. At least he’d had the sense to realise the large portion was for him. Credit where credit was due, you guessed.

A comfortable silence blanketed the kitchen as he took a seat, two glasses of water in his hands, and you smiled a thank you. If you had your brother to thank for anything, it was teaching you how to cook. Well, it was many more things than that, but at this moment, it was cooking lessons. He didn’t want you going into the world with the culinary skills of a carrot. His words, not yours.

You had a feeling Logan was a hard man to impress, so listening to his small grunt of appreciation was music to your ears. “Told ya I was a good chef,” you beamed after swallowing a mouthful and taking a large sip of water.

Logan nodded in agreement. It wasn’t like he could disagree, the proof was right there, in front of him, in his fucking mouth for fuck’s sake. And the peace pesto from last night. Though he was glad his metabolism was fast. Pasta two days in a row can’t be good for anyone. “Never said you weren’t,” your expression fell from pride to scowling in seconds, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “You’re a fantastic chef.”

Your eyes narrowed as you searched for any hint of dishonesty, but you came up short. Though he said it as if to placate you, something told you he really meant it. You were just playing around, in all honesty, teasing in order to forget what just happened between you, and you’d gotten so much more than you bargained for.

Much like the other night, you both fell into comfortable, mundane conversation, finding refuge in how fucking normal everything felt right now. You laughed and smiled as if the threat of disappearing into nothing didn’t constantly hang above your head, and he teased and joked as if the weight of his forgotten life didn’t constantly burden his shoulders. You could get used to this. Dangerously used to this.

Logan was completely enamoured by you, once again finding himself encapsulated by the way you talk, from moments where you get really into whatever story you’re telling, to quieter moments when you let the conversation settle. If he was to die tomorrow, unlikely but worth entertaining from time to time, it was moments like these he was sure would flash through his mind.

“What about you? I’ve talked your ear off about my life but you never talk about yours. Though, I guess there’s a lot to talk about,” you mused thoughtfully, twisting your fork through your spaghetti, or whatever was left of it. Logan grunted, shifting in his seat to lean against the back of the chair.

“It’s not a happy story,” he admitted quietly, buying himself some time by taking a long glass of water. Your gentle eyes found his, a soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

“I’m not looking for a fairytale. Just who you are,” you fought the urge to reach across the table and slip your hand into his. Though you didn’t want to push him to divulge anything, you just didn’t wanna feel like the whole conversation was one-sided. Sure, he would chime in with a few anecdotes but mainly it was just asking you questions.

If he was being honest with himself, Logan wasn’t sure he wanted to tell you anything about his past. He knew you wouldn’t judge, clearly having seen a fair amount of bullshit yourself, and the fact that it simply wasn’t who you were. No, his problem lay with the fact that he didn’t want to dampen your spirit with his sob story of a past. How he only remembers through thrashing nightmares, waking up soaked in sweat, heart racing. You didn’t need to know any of that.

“Alright… I–” he began before quite literally being saved by the bell. Logan looked at his watch, brows raising at how easily time had once again run away with the two of you. You blinked, looking around as if you could find the bell and ask it personally why it was going off so early before the echoing of ongoing conversation shattered the domestic delusion you’d both managed to trick yourselves into feeling.

“Another time,” you stood from the table, leaning over to grab his plate, but he swatted your hand away and instead took your own.

“Never learn, do ya?” he asked with a slight smile, and you rolled your eyes. With a heavy, defeated sigh, you conceded, simply allowing him to take your plate to the sink. Stretching your arms high above your head, you popped your stiff shoulders, turning your head as two students you knew well entered the kitchen.

“You made meatballs?! No fair, I wanted some!” Jubilee whined, her books still clasped against her chest. Artie stuck out his forked tongue, much like a snake would taste the air around it before his curious face morphed into a frown. It seemed he too wouldn’t have minded meatballs.

Logan looked over his shoulder at the two newcomers, his eyes darting between you and them, your guilt written all over your face.

“I’ll make them for you again sometime soon. We could have one of those big dinners we used to do, remember those?” you asked, your eyes alight with hope. Logan had heard of those. Apparently, you used to cook for the whole mansion, and the students would drag tables and chairs from all different rooms and have a huge feast together. Of course, he didn’t believe a word anybody said about it, since he was convinced you were a figment of everyone’s collective imagination, but now he knew you very much did exist, he could envision you dancing around the kitchen for hours on end, preparing dish after dish.

Jubilee’s face lit up at the suggestion, her hand hitting Artie’s arm excitedly. “Seriously? You mean that? We’ve missed doing that so much. Nobody cooks the way you do!” She bounced on her toes, before whirling and darting from the room, most likely to tell the rest of her friends. Artie lingered for a few seconds, clearly not knowing whether he wanted to stay or to race after Jubilee, before he too turned on his heel and ran after her. You chuckled softly, running a hand through your hair.

“What’ve I gotten myself into…?” you muttered, startling slightly as a hand rested on your shoulder. You looked up at Logan, unable to accurately decipher his expression. All you knew was that it was soft. Softer than you’d seen in the last day or so.

“Were y’always this good with em? The kids?” he asked, and you huffed a laugh. You wished you could say yes, absolutely, you’d always been naturally gifted at looking after children. But that wasn’t the truth.

“Fuck no. Used to hate kids, to be honest with you. Thought they were annoying as fuck when I first started,” you admitted slightly sheepishly. “But, they grew on me. Still not a fan of like, other kids, but any who come to this school? Love ‘em.”

“Makes me wonder why they sent you ‘round America and not someone more suited.” his eyes glinted with mischief and you lightly elbowed his ribs.

“I can be incredibly persuasive.”

“That so?”

“Mmmhm,” you nodded emphatically, stepping out of his range and immediately missing the warmth of his palm on your shoulder. You hadn’t even noticed he’d left it there until you moved away and hopped onto the table, your feet dangling slightly. He didn’t take his eyes off you, scanning your face as though he was considering you. You cocked a brow. “What?”

“Teach with me.”

You blinked. Well, you weren’t expecting that. “Come again?”

“Teach with me,” he repeated as confidently as he’d said it the first time. You scoffed a laugh.

“What? Why?”

Logan shrugged. “You’re better with the kids than I am, and it would give you a good opportunity to develop your mutation in a combat setting.” And I get to spend more time with you.

You hesitated. “I– I don’t know, Logan. It’s… I don’t think it’s a good idea,” While you wanted nothing more than yet another excuse to be around him, you didn’t know if getting back into teaching was the right thing for you at the moment. Yeah, you missed it. Fuck, you missed it more than you thought you would, but you really meant it when you said you weren’t cut out for it. If only you weren’t the only person who thought so.

“One class.” he bargained. “Help me with one class tomorrow and decide from there.”

You pursed your lips, and Logan could almost hear your internal debate. “You’re not gonna let it go til I do it, are you?”

“Probably not,” he smirked, knowing he’d just got you to agree. Your resulting sigh confirmed it.

“Fine. One class. No more than that.” In all honesty, you would have agreed just to see his resulting smile.

“We’ll see about that bub, class starts at one tomorrow.”

You nodded once, nerves suddenly bubbling in your gut. You were going to teach again, after being out the game for the last two years. Fucking hell you wanted to throw up. But you took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling. Maybe this was a good thing. A blessing in disguise. Sure, it had been a while, but maybe Logan was right. Maybe your mutation would only develop under times of stress. You were incredibly stressed today, and look what happened.

“Alright, I’ll talk to Charles and Scott, see what they say,”

Logan huffed, clearly irate with the idea. “Don’t give a shit what Scott says. He couldn’t help you after almost two hours. I was there for two minutes and you made progress,” he huffed, and you couldn’t help but laugh slightly. Was he… was he jealous? No, that wasn’t possible. What would he have to be jealous about?

“Alright tough guy, rein it in. The way you helped out earlier, it wouldn’t surprise me if Charles is telling him you should be taking over my training,” you hadn’t even thought about it before you said it, but now it was out your mouth, you realised it was entirely plausible. Especially since anyone with eyes or ears could see how much better you got on with Logan than you did Scott. Logan suggested one approach and it worked like a charm.

“Ya think so?” Fuck was the hope in his voice as obvious to you as it was to him? The idea of helping you with your mutation, whilst slightly terrifying, excited him. He couldn’t help but think that would be a learning experience for both of you.

“Yeah, why not? Like you said, Scott couldn’t help after two hours,” you shrugged, hopping off the table. “Anyway, I’m in dire need of a shower and comfier clothing, so I’ll see you in a bit.” Logan almost cried at the thought of you no longer smelling like you do now, and he had half the mind to tell you to forget the shower, you smelt that fucking good. But he also didn’t want the reputation of the weird-smell guy, so instead of trapping you in his arms and begging you not to, he simply nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, see you later.” He grumbled, trying not to be obviously annoyed by the fact the time you’d spent together was coming to an end. You shot him a confused look, before disappearing out the door and up the stairs to your room. Logan stayed for a few more minutes, his eyes closed as he finally let himself get lost in your scent. He wanted you. Fuck he’d only known you for a day and he wanted you. How the hell was he supposed to just behave normally now you were back living here? It simply wasn’t possible.

He groaned, running a hand down the side of his face. On the one hand, he really wanted to spend more time with you. He was actively looking forward to spending time with you. But on the other, he didn’t know how much longer he could behave himself. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this ‘friendly’ banter with you without it crossing the line. Had it already crossed the line?

Jesus Christ, he didn’t even know. He couldn’t help thinking this was likely about to get extremely messy if he didn’t get his shit together. But, at the same time…

He always liked a little mess.

Freshly showered, moisturised and pampered, you lay face up on your bed, your room feeling more like a forest than anything else. The steam from your shower still rolling out from your bathroom, and the more tropical plants you kept seemed to be absolutely thriving. You were thrilled, you really were, but you couldn’t take your mind off the day you’d just had. Not that it was over, it was only five in the afternoon, but so much had happened in the last day it was hard to wrap your head around.

You’d been replaced as a professor, your bedroom stolen, and you’d been informed that the mutation you thought you knew so well wasn’t actually what you thought it was at all, and that it could very well end you in seconds. You’d thrown a fit, broken your hand, dragged shadows toward you and constructed them into a pair of fucking awesome wings, and cooked with a man you’d known all of two minutes.

And the strangest fucking part was that you couldn’t get him off your mind. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was honestly getting a little irritating, seeing his face every time you close your eyes, hearing his laugh when your room got a little too silent. Feeling the ghostly touches of his arms around your waist, his hands on your neck. His breath against your ear.

You flapped your arms down on your bed in defiance. You would not lie in bed thinking about him all evening. You refused. And luckily, due to an unexpected visit, you didn’t have to.

“He likes you, ya know,”

You screamed, whipping your head back to your door where you saw Kitty strolling in, completely unphased by your reaction. Grabbing one of your pillows, you threw it at her approaching form, watching as it soared straight through her body. Your jaw flapped, completely speechless. “I– Wh– Kitty! You can’t just waltz in here unannounced! Scared me shitless!” you exclaimed, running a stressed hand through your hair.

“Why? I always used to. Been gone that long, huh?” she asked, plopping down on the end of your bed and crossing her legs.

“Yeah… guess I have,” It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for your accommodation to be broken into. The moment rumour got out there was a mutant staying a few streets over the road, you had to move. Sometimes you hadn’t been quick enough and had spent the rest of the evening frantically scrubbing blood from beneath your fingernails, before making a quick exit.

Those were the times on your travels nobody needed to know about. Those were the times you’d keep to yourself.

You jumped again as your door burst open, a frantic Logan looking you up and down before his eyes darted around the room. “You alright? I heard screaming,” he panted, slightly breathless from clearly having sprinted up the stairs.

Your heart grew five sizes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Kitty scared the shit out of me, ‘s’all,” you shrugged, too focused on him to notice the woman of the hour beaming wildly, looking between the two of you.

His shoulders sagged, the man visibly relaxing, his eyes lingering on yours. “Okay…”

“Okay…” you repeated, unable to tame your disobedient smile as he almost awkwardly nodded his head.

“Right. I’ll uh, yeah. Leave ya to it,” he clicked his tongue, sending you one last glance to make sure you were really okay, before closing the door.

You sighed, shaking your head fondly, chuckling quietly to yourself.

“Oh. My. God. You like him too!”

Looking up with unnatural speed, you scoffed, waving your hand dismissively. “The fuck are you talking about?” you asked a little too defensively.

“I’m talking about you and Logan. He clearly likes you, and now I can see that you like him too! Oh, this is so fucking cute, just wait until I tell Marie, she’ll go fucking crazy!” Kitty clapped her hands excitedly, and you had to catch one of her wrists in order to stop her.

“What are you on about? Logan doesn’t like me, we’re just friends,” oh, was it supposed to hurt that much to say it? But, in all honesty, you don’t think you were ready to confront whatever it was you felt for this man. For now, you were pretty content to bask in not knowing, and being kind of excited about it.

“Mhm? Friends don’t eye fuck in the kitchen.”

You choked. Her tone was so matter-of-fact that if you weren’t actually looking at her, you wouldn’t have believed you were talking to Shadowcat herself, Kitty Pryde. “Kitty! Christ, what happened to you? And we weren’t eye fucking. I was hungry and refused to cook insta-noodles, so we actually made a meal.” You explained.

“For almost four hours? Meatballs take twenty minutes, twenty-five at a push,”

“We lost track of time!”

“I repeat, for four hours?” she asked again, folding her arms and raising one of her thin brows. You pursed your lips to stop yourself from saying anything else incriminating. “Though as much,”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t need to, it’s written over your lovestruck face.” She poked her finger toward your nose, and all you could think about was the way Logan flicked your forehead beforehand or the way Logan gave you that little push back in the training room. Or the way Logan–

Christ on a fucking boat when would it end?

“I’m not lovestruck,” you mumbled, dragging your knees up to your chest. You debated telling Kitty about your predicament with your mutation, for the sole reason of explaining why you and Logan were spending so much time together recently, but you didn’t think you could bear the look on her face. The only ones who knew, to your understanding, were Scott, as the leader of the team, Jean, as the leading scientist, Charles for obvious reasons, and Logan because you told him. You didn’t really want another person to know your problems, especially not Kitty.

You couldn’t bear to see her face when you told her you weren’t a phaser anymore. The mere thought broke your heart. You had matching mugs and everything. You couldn’t do that to her. Let alone sharing the idea that your mutation could simply not allow you to return back to the corporeal world one day, and you’d be stuck as nothing but wondering consciousness in the shadows for, effectively, all eternity. That was a little too morbid to talk about even with Logan.

“He’s just… helping me get back into the swing of things. I haven’t been a teacher for a long time, Kit, and since he took my position, he’s offered to help me–”

“Get back into teaching! Oh my god, he has, hasn’t he? That’s so exciting! I thought you didn’t want to get back into it?” She asked, untucking her legs and swinging them around so she was now lying comfortably on your bed, her head propped up on her elbow.

“Well, we’re not getting ahead of ourselves, but yeah, that’s the idea. Gonna help him with his class tomorrow…” you trailed off, your heart beginning to accelerate at the thought of teaching your first class in two years. “So yeah, that’s why we’ve been spending so much time together. It’s nothing serious, promise! Plus, since most of the new students are kids I found, he’s pretty much the only person I don’t know here.” You flopped back down onto your bed, angling your head so you could still see her.

There was a moment of comfortable silence, a moment to let the conversation settle and for your heart to slow a little, before Kitty spoke up again. “He was really excited to meet you,” she offered quietly, and your brows raised subconsciously. “Everytime someone started talking about you, he’d tune in. He was subtle, but Marie noticed it first, and she told me to look out for it. He was looking forward to meeting you for the best part of a year.”

You took a deep breath. That couldn’t possibly be true. “You’re good at seeing things that aren’t there, Kit. I love you for it, but sometimes things really aren’t that deep,” you explained softly, trying your hardest not to smile at the image of Logan only tuning into the conversation if it was about you. It was definitely a stretch of the imagination, but it was a pleasant one.

“Yeah yeah, you watch. I’ll be keeping an eye on your totally platonic relationship with Professor Howlett but mark my words, you’ll be together by the end of the month,” Kitty smacked your calf to emphasise her point, and you shook your leg threateningly, laughing at the notion.

“I cannot wait to see you eat your words. I’m sure they’ll taste of falsehoods and regret.” You flashed her a toothy grin, and she stuck her tongue out in retaliation. You’d missed moments like these. In all honesty, you hadn’t realised how lonely the last two years had been. Hadn’t realised how starved of friendship you’d been until you found yourself talking and laughing amongst friends again. You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this place until you came home again, to both the old friends, and the new.

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