#now a sickly shade of yellow

[starloftspittsburgh]

Not all of us have a green thumb, but we can still love a good plant tip! National Houseplant Appreciation Day is here, so let’s help our leafy friends thrive. 🌱

National Houseplant Day

Pro tip: Rotate plants weekly for even sunlight and wipe those leaves clean. What’s your favorite houseplant? Share it in the comments! #HouseplantDay #GreenThumbGoals Houseplant Short Story: The sunbeams danced across the dusty windowpane, illuminating a forgotten corner of the room. Nestled amongst forgotten trinkets and half-finished projects sat a forlorn fiddle leaf fig. Its once vibrant…

[d1stalker]

Collateral Damage [Logan Howlett]

SUMMARY: The X-men are heroes—they save the world, eradicate threats and protect both mutants and humans alike. You don't see it that way, though.

WARNINGS: one-sided e2l, fem!reader is stubborn and sassy af but it's valid, arguing, canon-level violence, scott's a dick, SMUT - 18+ only! WC: 21k - MASTERLIST

A/N: i've always wanted to write a fic with this plot, it's been on my mind for AGES. happy reading!

----

The first time you see them, it’s on your birthday.

Not being one for big, elaborate parties, you planned a quiet celebration instead—maybe a stroll through the lively city streets, followed by dinner with friends later. You had just visited your favourite store, buying a gift for yourself, and now you’re on your way back home.

The streets buzz with life as people shop, eat, and laugh, making it the perfect backdrop for a peaceful walk and some casual people-watching.

Then, out of nowhere, the ground trembles.

At first, you think it’s an earthquake—a quick jolt beneath your feet that sends a ripple of confusion through your body. But the tremor grows stronger, the ground shaking violently as everyone around you begins to panic, frantically looking around for the source, you included. And that’s when you see it. 

A hulking, green monster stomping through the city streets like something out of a nightmare. It has to be at least twenty feet tall, its skin a sickly shade of green, its eyes glowing with rage. Cars bounce with each heavy footstep, leaving deep footprints in the cement in its wake.

People scream, scrambling to get out of its path, but you stand frozen, heart pounding as you try to make sense of what’s happening. In the blink of an eye, the city had been plunged into chaos. You lose track of your surroundings, too busy trying to keep your eyes on the monster headed your way, while also dodging the hoard of pedestrians running for their lives.

Until they show up.

Initially, you don’t even notice them. After all, there’s so much going on around you at this point you barely know what to do with yourself. Yet, through the dust and destruction, you see flashes of movement—figures darting toward the monster with a sense of purpose. 

You don’t know who they are, but their bright blue and yellow suits make it seem like you should. At first glance, it’s hard not to feel a sense of awe. They move with such confidence, with their powers on full display for the world to see. You’ve never seen anything like it—a team of mutants using their powers in the open, fighting for what you assume is the greater good.

Maybe they can stop this!

The one first to act is a woman with white hair. She raises her arms to the sky, her eyes glowing a bright white as dark clouds swirl above, blocking out the sun. A flash of lightning slams into the monster's chest, forcing it to reel back with a thunderous roar of agony, and the crowd around you gasps, watching in wonder.

But when the lightning strikes a second time, it veers off course, crashing into the side of a nearby building. The structure groans under the impact, flames erupting from the point of contact as windows shatter, sending glass raining down onto the street below.

The collision sends you to the ground, and when you look up again, you see the power inside go out, all the lights flickering off.

Whatever awe you’d been feeling dissolves into concern, a sinking feeling settling in your chest.

Following her, a man with a glowing red visor strides forward. He’s clearly aiming to hit the monster, but the bright red beam shooting from his eyes slices through several cars in the street first, flipping them over and leaving them in smoldering wrecks. One of the blasts tears through a storefront, reducing it to rubble in a matter of seconds. More people scream and scatter, trying to escape the destruction.

From the corner of your eye, you see another mutant—a man with claws—lunge toward the monster, jumping onto cars to get closer to its head. But by using the parked cars as springboards, the weight of him causes the roof to sink in, and his claws leave deep gashes in the metal. 

How heavy is this guy? Is he made of metal or something?

He’s fast, brutal, slashing at the green beast with some serious ferocity. Still, despite the attack, the monster’s strength prevails, and it easily tosses him aside, crashing into buildings, crowds—anything in the way. To your surprise, he always gets back up. And that should be good, right? They are fighting for the safety of the city. 

But as debris rains down and cars are overturned, you can’t help but feel like this isn’t helping. You’re constantly dodging rubble, trying to find shelter, only for it to be destroyed seconds later. It’s like being in a war zone, and it doesn’t seem to be getting better.

And above it all, there’s a woman with red hair. She’s floating, and you watch from where you’re hiding as she lifts entire trees from their roots, hurling them at the monster in an attempt to slow it down. Except, much like her teammates, her attempt goes awry, and she misses, the trees now flying toward you. 

You barely have the reflexes to dive out of the way.

Your heart races, breath coming in shallow bursts as you press yourself against a wall, trying to steady yourself. The sound of sirens blare in the distance, but it doesn’t seem like help is coming anytime soon. There’s too much going on. People are running, pushing each other aside, crying, screaming, trying to find safety.

Glancing around, you’re met with destruction—flames licking at the sidewalk, cars totaled, and building wreckage littering the streets. These mutants, while clearly powerful, are causing just as much destruction as the monster itself.

What should have been a simple takedown—a 6v1—has turned into a full-scale disaster.

And yet, they don’t stop. They don’t pause to help the people caught in the crossfire, don’t even seem to notice the damage they’re causing. They’re so focused on the monster, so focused on the fight, that they’ve lost sight of everything else.

Is this what heroism looks like? You’d been excited at first—amazed, even—thinking they were here to save the day. But now, standing in the middle of a city that’s being torn apart, you realize how wrong you were.

They don’t care. Not about the city. Not about the people. 

Finally, with one last blast from the man with the visor, the monster collapses to the ground, defeated. It lets out a final roar before falling still, its massive body sprawled across the street.

The team stands over its body, their chests heaving with exertion, but they have smiles on their faces, feeling victorious. One by one, they board an aircraft, dragging the monster in with them, barely sparing a glance at the horrors they’ve caused. The white-haired woman doesn’t even bother to clear the storm clouds she summoned.

Within moments, they’re gone. You, and everyone else in the area, are left to deal with the fallout. Left to clean up their mess. 

Happy birthday to me, I guess.

—

After that, you spend the next few days trying to process what had happened. You’re still in a state of shock, confusion, and disbelief, but then the media catches wind of what went down, and suddenly, it’s everywhere.

News channels replay the footage over and over, the headlines screaming about “our holy saviours” saving the day. They’re plastered across every screen, being hailed as protectors.

The X-Men.

A group of mutant superheroes, apparently. The reporters list them off one by one, like they’re celebrities you should have known about. 

Storm. Cyclops. Wolverine. Jean Grey.

Mutants with powers like gods.

—

The second time you see them, you’re on vacation.

Sitting in a quaint café in the south of France, you’re enjoying a well-deserved break. The city you’re in is perfect—cobblestone streets winding through the village, vine-covered walls framing pastel-colored houses, and the scent of fresh bread drifting from nearby bakeries. It all feels like something out of a dream, the kind of peaceful retreat you’ve been desperate for after everything back home.

You order a frappé, and as you wait, you idly flip through a local newspaper, trying to see how much of your rusty high school French you can remember. It’s peaceful, quiet, exactly what you needed—until it’s not.

Movement out of the corner of your eye grabs your attention, and you glance over the edge of the newspaper, watching a group of tourists as they walk into the café. It’s not really anything odd, so you don’t think much of it—they’re dressed casually, like any group of vacationers.

Though, something about them tugs at the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you’ve seen them before.

You lower the newspaper entirely now, staring as you try to place where you recognize them from. The tall one with the red sunglasses, the woman with the striking white hair, the man in the leather jacket... You squint, the pieces slowly falling into place.

And then it hits you.

Oh, no way.

You’re halfway around the world, in a different country, on a different continent, and somehow, they’re here. At the same café. 

Shifting in your seat, you’re trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when the barista arrives with your drink. He smiles warmly at you, placing the cup down on the table with a soft “voila madame,” but before you can even thank him, there’s a blur of motion.

One of them—Wolverine, you think—lunges at the barista, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him back. The tray tips, and your frappé spills everywhere—all over the table, your newspaper, and, to your absolute horror, all over you. 

“Logan, no!” you hear Storm shout, but it’s too late.

The cold drink soaks into your clothes, and you let out a startled yelp, jumping up as your chair topples over. Your clothes are ruined, your vacation ruined, and in the midst of all of this?

Wolverine—or Logan, you guess, is wrestling with the poor barista.

“What the hell?!” you shout, trying to shake off the liquid dripping down your legs. “Is this a joke?!”

No one hears you, or even acknowledges you.

The other mutants jump into action, and before you know it, the peaceful café is transformed into yet another battleground. Cyclops blasts a beam at the barista—who you now realize must be the target of whatever mission they’re on—but it misses, smashing into the wall behind you. 

You’re furious, covered in a brown drink that makes it seem like you just had explosive diarrhea, and caught in yet another X-Men fiasco. All you wanted was a vacation. You don’t even know what’s happening anymore—who the barista is, what mission they’re on—but frankly, you don’t care.

This is absurd!

Without a second thought, you grab your bag and make a break for it, dodging overturned tables and debris as you make your way to the exit. You don’t bother looking back, your only thought being to get changed, and get as far away as possible.

After rounding the corner, putting some distance between yourself and the café, you pause for a moment to catch your breath. And then you hear it.

Boom.

The sound reverberates through the narrow streets, shaking the cobblestones beneath your feet. You whirl around, sticking your head out from the corner of the building, just in time to see a plume of smoke rising into the air from where the café once stood. 

Your heart sinks.

They blew it up.

—

The third time you see them, it’s a really nice day outside.

It’s a week after you’ve returned home, and the weather had finally given you a break from the suffocating heat. You’re walking home from a lunch with an old friend, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Probably said friend sending you something stupid to laugh at later. 

You chuckle, already anticipating the joke, when—

BAM!

Something slams into you from the side with the force of a freight train. You’re airborne for a second, weightless, before crashing hard onto the pavement, your breath knocked right out from your lungs. 

Dazed, you groan and blink up at the sky, trying to get your bearings. What the hell just hit me? Your vision swims as you sit up, shoulder throbbing from the impact. Twisting your neck to see whatever the hell that was, you immediately regret it, wincing at the sharp pain. 

Great, just great.

When you finally manage to sit up, you spot the culprit.

Cyclops.

Are you fucking serious?!

His back is to you, dusting off his ugly uniform like nothing happened. You look around, and notice that the street in front you is in ruins—buildings have gaping holes where windows used to be, chunks of the road are crumbling, people covered in blood scurrying away as fast as they can. 

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, you catch a glimpse of the giant mechanical robots looming above, scanning for their targets. One of them must’ve thrown Cyclops into you. 

You can see the others—Jean, Storm, Beast (some new guy)—flying around, saving the world. That’s codeword for: wreaking havoc, destroying your city.

Anger boils up inside you, hot and unrelenting as you struggle to your feet, rubbing your sore shoulder. But as you open your mouth, a gruff voice cuts through the air.

"Good job, dickhead. You just hurt a civilian."

Your gaze snaps toward the sound. Wolverine’s standing a few feet away, claws out, glaring at the guy who sent you flying. 

“I was thrown, Logan,” he says passively. “Maybe if you kept the Sentinels off me—”

“Maybe if you didn’t stand there like a damn target, you wouldn’t get thrown!” The clawed mutant growls, taking a step closer. His whole posture is tense, like he’s barely holding himself back from tackling the other man into the ground (you would pay to have him do it). “Seriously, Summers, it’s like you want to get tossed around.”

Cyclops doesn’t even flinch. “We’ve got bigger problems than this right now,” he dismisses, not even glancing back at you to check if you’re okay. 

Well, there goes the last of your patience.

"Are you kidding me?!" you shout, throwing your hands up in disbelief. They completely ignore you, too absorbed in their petty bickering to acknowledge that you’re still standing there, seething.

Before you can rip into them, something catches your eye—a Sentinel (is that what they’re called?), hovering above them, charging up a blast. Its arm is raised, energy crackling at the barrel of its cannon, aimed directly at the two distracted morons.

“Oh, for the love of—” you mutter under your breath before diving forward.

The blast hits you square in the chest, but instead of pain, all you feel is the heat of the energy surging through your body, like lightning spreading through every inch of your veins. It crackles and burns, the force building up inside you until it feels like you’re about to explode.

Then, with a deep breath, you thrust your hands forward, channeling and releasing the blast right back at the robot, blowing it apart. Metal and circuits rain down, the Sentinel crashing into the ground with a deafening thud.

Silence falls.

You’re panting, feeling the leftover energy fizzle out of your fingertips. Slowly, you turn back around, and unsurprisingly, Cyclops–or Scott, as you’ve heard in the news—and Logan are staring at you like you just walked on water. Well, the clawed one is. You can’t really see the other brown-haired man’s expression due to his visor.  

“Woah, bub—”

“Oh, hell no!” You spin around fully, pointing an accusatory finger at both of them. “Neither of you get to speak! I just saved your asses because you were too busy bickering like children to notice the massive death robot about to blow you to pieces!”

Logan’s mouth quirks up, but he wisely stays silent.

“And this is exactly why I hate you people!” You continue, exasperated. “You swoop in, make a mess, destroy everything in your path, and then just leave like nothing happened! You think this is helping anyone? You think the people running for their lives right now give a damn about your little team squabbles?”

Scott doesn’t even blink. “We’re just trying to help,” he says evenly, like he’s rehearsed the line a thousand times.

“Help?” you scoff incredulously. “You only tell yourself you’re doing that to make yourself feel better. How many casualties do you think are coming out of this, hm? What’s the body count gonna be after today? Or do you not even bother counting anymore?”

His audacity makes you want to laugh. He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re not done.

"All this mess, the destroyed buildings, the people who won’t make it home tonight because you couldn’t keep your damn fight contained! You’re so focused on stopping the big bad guys that you don’t even realize how much carnage you leave behind. Who’s cleaning up after you? Who’s paying for this?! " You gesture around wildly. "News flash: the people whose lives you’re currently ruining!”

Beside him, Logan’s smirk fades, and he begins to step forward with his hands raised. “Listen, darlin’, we’re doin’ the best we can. We didn’t ask for this fight—”

"Oh, don’t give me that ‘best we can’ bullshit," you snap.

“We’re here to protect people,” Scott adds in, trying to maintain authority. “It’s not always clean, but we are making a difference—"

“Shut the fuck up! I’m not finished!” You interrupt, shaking your head. “Every day. Every damn day there’s something new.”

With the face Logan’s making, you’d think he’s going to start going in on you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just watches, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s trying to figure you out. It’s unnerving, but you don’t care. You’ve had enough.

"And you," you say, turning your ire toward him, "You couldn’t have, I don’t know, used your super speed or whatever the hell you do to catch him before he crashed into me?"

His eyebrow quirks up. “Super speed?” he chuckles lowly. “Ain’t that fast. Was a little busy with the giant killer robots.”

You tilt your head back in frustration and turn on your heel. "I’m done. I don’t care what kind of mission you’re on, or how noble you think it is. If you're planning to lay waste to the city yet again, be my guest.”

Giving no time for a response, you stalk off, weaving through the wreckage of the city streets, your heart still pounding in your chest. 

—

A couple weeks have passed since the last incident, and the X-Men seem to have disappeared from the headlines. You haven’t seen them or heard their whereabouts splashed across the news like you’ve gotten used to—though not by choice, of course. Whenever they do anything, the world seems to bow at their feet.

You don’t get it.

The flashy suits, the team name, the way they strut around as if they’re the Gods of the mutant race. It’s too much, too loud. They act like they’re above it all, as if their powers and heroics put them on a pedestal. Better than those who prefer to lay low, who have no choice but to blend in.

You’ve spent years hiding your powers, keeping them buried deep where no one can see. When you were younger, you didn’t have a choice. Your mutation made you a target—bullied, beaten up, pushed around for being different.

You learned quickly that being a mutant didn’t make you special. It made you vulnerable.

So, you hid. You stayed quiet, under the radar. It was safer that way.

And then here are the X-Men, parading around like their abilities make them untouchable, like they’ve forgotten what it’s like for the rest of you. It’s not that you don’t believe in helping others—you just don’t believe in the way they do it.

In your opinion, it’s all performance. From what you’ve experienced and seen up close, they always arrive with a fanfare, ready to jump into action, and do whatever they can to exterminate the threat. Yet, when the dust settles, it’s mutants like you who are left to pick up the pieces.

The ones who don’t wear brightly coloured costumes or shout about unity. You’re the ones who have to keep moving, keep surviving, without any recognition.

But it's not like you need recognition. You never have. What you need is peace.

—

You’re on the phone with your mom, trying to reassure her for the millionth time this week.

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, Mom, I’m fine," you say, pacing the length of your small living room. You glance at the muted TV screen, the news still cycling through the usual mayhem. "You’ve seen the news recently, right? We’ve got the X-Men to take care of all this stuff—"

Knock. Knock.

You freeze mid-sentence, your words trailing off as the sound of someone at your door interrupts the call. Your heart skips a beat, and your voice drops. "Mom, I’ll call you back."

Barely waiting for her to reply, you end the call, staring at the door like it might explode.

A knock at this hour? Unannounced? You waver, your mind racing with possibilities.

Delivery? A neighbour? You’re not expecting anyone.

Cautiously, you make your way toward the door, hand hovering over the handle as you listen. No more knocks, just the faint hum of the outside world. You take a breath, steeling yourself as you turn the handle and crack the door open.

The tufts of hair, the thick stubble, the edge in his eyes—it’s him. Wolverine. And just as your brain registers his face, you also notice the glint of metal where his claws are already halfway out.

Instincts kick in, and before he can get a word in, you push against the door, trying to slam it shut.

Still, he’s faster.

His fist punches through the wood, and with a metallic snikt, his claws extend fully, slicing through the door as if it were made of paper. He pushes it open again, forcing it against your effort, and the sheer strength sends you stumbling back.

“What the fuck?” you gasp, eyes wide as you steady yourself. “How did you even find me?”

Stepping inside, he says, “picked up your scent and followed it,” matter-of-factly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

For a moment, you just stare at him, dumbfounded. “That’s… that’s actually really creepy,” you manage, still trying to process the fact that he just said that without a hint of shame.

“Can’t control it, bub,” he shrugs. 

You take a step back, putting more distance between you and the man with the claws standing in your apartment. “Okay, well, you found me. Now what?”

His eyes lock onto yours. “I need you to come with me.”

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. 

“You’re not safe here.”

“Oh, I’m not safe?” you snap, sarcasm dripping from your voice. “Maybe if you and your merry band of idiots didn’t keep causing world-ending disasters, I wouldn’t need to be safe!”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Sentinels are tracking you down.”

You falter. “What are you talking about?”

“You used your powers,” he states. “Killed a Sentinel. That’s all it takes for them to target you.”

Blinking, you feel anger rush to the surface, your skin tingling with rage. “I didn’t kill anyone. They’re fucking robots.”

“They don’t see it that way,” he counters. “You took one down, and now they know what you are.”

Part of you knows there’s merit in what he’s saying, but you don’t want to hear it. The last thing you want is to be dragged into some mutant-robot war. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t ask for any of this!” you hiss, glaring at him. “And now you’re telling me I’m on some kill list because I defended myself? Because I defended you?!”

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite read, but he stays silent, watching you carefully. Your words start flying faster now, venom spilling into each one.

“I’m the one who took that thing down because you and that one-eyed bitch boy were too busy being immature! You weren’t even paying attention, and that thing almost blasted you both.” Your fingers ball into fists. "I saved both of you, and now I’m the one who has to run?"

Logan's jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring at the accusation. “We weren’t—”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” you cut him off. “If it weren’t for me, the two of you would be dead right now. And now I’m supposed to just go with you to your mansion and hide out? Like that’s going to fix th—”

You don’t get to end your rant, because he has stepped forward, and grabbed your shoulders, gripping you firmly. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back to him.

“This is serious,” he spits, eyes boring into yours. “You stay here, you die.”

His words slam into you. He’s not trying to scare you—he’s telling the truth.

“You don’t get to be stubborn about this,” he continues firmly. “You think you’re pissed off now? Wait until they come crashin' through your door in the middle of the night, and you don’t have a chance to fight back.”

Wrenching yourself out of his grasp, you take a few steps back. “I just—” you begin to say, but the words feel tangled in your throat. The denial is still there, but it’s weakening, cracking. “I don’t want to run.”

“You’re not running,” he sighs, his voice softening ever so slightly. “You’re buying time. Time to fight back, time to survive. But if you stay here? There’s none of that.”

You want to argue more, want to scream at him to get away, to not drag you into his fight, but instead, you let out a long, shaky breath, your shoulders slumping. “Fine,” you breath out. 

He nods, finally releasing his grip on you and stepping back. “Good. Pack up your shit. We leave in half an hour.”

Then, he walks over to your couch and plops down like he owns the place, crossing his arms as if settling in for a casual wait.

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath. “Unbelievable.”

Ignoring him, you turn and head into your bedroom, where you start throwing clothes into a duffel bag—jeans, a couple of shirts, whatever you can grab quickly. Your movements are hurried, fuelled by a mix of frustration and the creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of your mind. Grabbing your toiletries, you stuff them into a smaller bag, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the fact that some random mutant tracked you down, and now you have to leave your life until you’re safe. 

You peer back into the hallway, hearing the faint creak of the couch as Logan shifts around. I’m gonna kill this guy, you think to yourself. 

Once everything is packed and you’ve zipped your bag, you head back into the main room, only to see said random mutant still sprawled on your couch, looking far too comfortable, with a cigar in his hand.

“Seriously?” you say, slinging your duffel over your shoulder. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”

He grunts in response but doesn’t move. Typical.

You glance at the clock—still a few minutes left of the half-hour he allotted you, but there’s no point in dragging it out. “I’m ready,” you say flatly, heading toward the door.

Logan stands, stretches his arms over his head, and cracks his neck like he’s waking up from a nap. “Let’s go then.”

—

The ride is tense and quiet, which suits you just fine. You’d rather not talk to him anyway. Every now and then, you let out a loud sigh, unable to hold back the annoyance you’re feeling. Each time, you feel Logan’s eyes dart toward you from the driver’s seat, but he doesn’t say anything. Well, that is, until—

“Can you shut the fuck up?” he growls, keeping his eyes on the road.

You clench your jaw, shifting in your seat. “I didn’t even say anything, jackass.”

He huffs, clearly not in the mood for an argument, but the strain between you is almost impossible to ignore. You cross your arms, staring out the window, observing the landscape shift as the drive continues. 

Eventually, you can see the outline of the mansion, and you watch as it gets bigger and bigger the closer you get. Upon arrival, He pulls the car up to the front and cuts the engine. You both sit there for a moment, mute. 

“Well, here we are,” he mumbles after the pause stretches on for an uncomfortable amount of time, glancing over at you.

“Great,” you say sarcastically, unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing open the car door. 

Logan walks ahead without saying a word, leading the way up the grand stone steps toward the front door. You trail behind, your mood darkening with every step, glaring at the perfectly polished entrance. 

The doors open before you even reach them, and you’re greeted by an older man in a wheelchair—Charles Xavier, if you remember correctly. The famous telepath. The genius behind the mutant team (some news anchor's words, not yours). His expression is kind, but you’re in such a bad mood, you don’t even bother trying to seem polite.

“Welcome,” He says with a warm smile, his eyes assessing you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. “Logan’s told me a lot about you.”

You press your lips together in a line. “Yeah? Well, don’t get too excited.”

Logan grunts beside you. “She’s got a bit of an attitude,” he mutters to Charles, then turns to you, gesturing you to follow him. “Come on.”

Inwardly groaning, you have no choice but to follow him. Everything about this place screams “too good to be true,” and you hate it already. You’re used to keeping your head down, blending in, not being surrounded by people who wear their powers on their sleeves like some badge of honour.

As you walk through the halls, a few faces appear—other mutants, some of them kids, watching curiously as you pass by. You can feel their eyes on you, can hear the whispers already starting about the new arrival. 

Charles wheels alongside you, still smiling, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You remind me of Logan when he first joined us,” he says thoughtfully.

That stops you in your tracks.

You whip your head toward the man, giving him a piercing look. “Do not say that. We are nothing alike.”

On your other side, Logan smirks. “Not sure if I should be offended or not.”

“I’m serious.” If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under.

Chucking softly, Charles seems completely unaffected by your outburst. “You’re both a bit rough around the edges, but you’ll find your place here.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say. “Because that’s exactly what I want to do.”

Deeper into the mansion, you catch sight of the X-Men you’ve seen before: Cyclops, Storm, Jean Grey. They all turn to look at you, sizing you up. You don’t flinch—you just stare back, your expression hard.

Pulling your duffel bag higher on your shoulder, you rip your eyes away from theirs, and keep walking, following Logan down the long, quiet hallway. Finally, he stops in front of a door.

“This is your room,” he grunts, nodding toward it. “Try not to break anything.”

Choosing silence, you push the door open. Stepping inside, you expect the bare minimum—a bed, maybe a closet—but instead, you’re met with a surprisingly large space. There’s a massive bed in the center of the room, a desk by the window, and, to your surprise, a set of glass doors leading out to a balcony.

You drop your bag by the door, glancing around, trying to shake off the unease. This is way too nice for a prisoner. You walk toward the balcony doors, curious despite yourself, and when you pull them open, the cool breeze hits you immediately.

Once you’re outside, you realize something that immediately makes your stomach drop.

The balcony is shared. And right next to your side, leaning against the railing with a cigar between his fingers, is Logan.

You halt mid-motion, eyes fixed on him in stunned silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He glances over, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes a drag of his cigar. “Surprise.”

You groan, turning your back on him and walking toward the opposite edge of the balcony, trying to calm the annoyance inside you. Of all the people you could’ve been stuck beside, it had to be him. It’s not enough that he dragged you here, but now there’s a chance you’re going to have to see him every time you step outside.

“So what now?” you mutter, staring out over the mansion grounds, the manicured gardens below looking like something out of a postcard. “I’m just supposed to stay here, be a part of your little mutant club?”

Taking another slow pull on his cigar, “You’re supposed to stay alive. Everythin’ else? That’s up to you.”

“But why do you suddenly care?” you ask. “I’ve seen the way you operate. You and your team sweep in, fight your battles, and then leave everyone else in the dirt. You don’t care about the collateral damage—hell, you cause half of it.” 

Logan pauses, his cigar halfway to his lips. He doesn’t answer right away, and the brief hesitation only makes your irritation spike. You press on, inching closer, voice laced with accusation.

“Why now?” you press. “Why drag me into this when you’ve never cared about anyone else in the crossfire?”

Logan finally turns to face you, exhaling a cloud of smoke before speaking, his expression hardened. “This ain’t about me ‘caring,’” he says flatly. “This is about survival. You killed a Sentinel, whether you like it or not. That puts a target on your back.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that very clear,” you bite out. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why me? Why am I suddenly important to you?”

Logan’s eyes darken, drilling into yours. “You’re not important to me,” he says flatly. “But they won’t stop until they get you. The destruction that’ll come from that—if your stubborn ass fought back, which I know it would, by the way—would be much greater than anything we would cause.”

“Doubt that,” you snarl bitterly. You don’t linger for the sound of his response, spinning on your heel and walking back into your room, slamming the balcony door behind you.

The bed is large and you can’t deny how inviting it looks after the day you’ve had. You flop onto it face-first, letting out a long, drawn out sigh.

You’re barely able to reflect on the chaotic day you’ve had before your eyelids flutter shut, and you sink into a deep slumber, the exhaustion from everything catching up to you.

—

You’re jolted awake by a loud, aggressive knock on your bedroom door. The sound is so forceful it feels like the entire frame is rattling. You release a sound, half groan, half sigh, steeped in frustration. Your face is still buried in your pillow, and you curse whoever decided to ruin what little sleep you managed to get.

“Get up,” Logan’s gruff voice calls from the other side of the door. “We’re leaving for breakfast in ten.”

Ah yes. Of-fucking-course it's him. Who else would it be?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you throw on some clothes and make a half-hearted attempt to fix your hair before opening the door, ready to curse him, but he's already striding down the hallway, hardly bothering to check if you're following. You roll your eyes, your steps slow and begrudging as you move to follow

As you catch up, you can’t help but throw him a sideways glare. “Why are you acting like my personal bodyguard?”

“Gotta make sure you don’t do anything reckless.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as you fall into step beside him. “You don’t even know what I can do.”

Logan’s lips twitch into a lazy smirk, and you immediately want to wipe it off his face. “Exactly,” he says, his tone almost amused. “Which is why today, we’re gonna test you.”

You stop in your tracks, staring at his back. “Test me? What the hell does that mean?”

He stops too, turning to face you. “Means you’re gonna show me what you’re capable of.”

Teeth clenched, you feel the slow rise of aggravation mingling with apprehension. “I’m not some science experiment.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you’re not a regular person, either. You need to know your limits—and how to handle what’s coming.”

Groaning, you drag your hands down your face incredulously. “I don’t even know what to say back to that. All I know is that I’m hungry.”

—

The kitchen of Xavier’s mansion is bustling with activity as the two of you walk in. The rest of the team is gathered around a large table at the centre of the room, and you spot Jean, Cyclops, Storm, and a few others sitting together, chatting, but you feel no desire to join them. 

Rather, you gravitate toward a smaller table by the window, hoping to get some peace while you choke down breakfast. The chair scrapes lightly as you pull it out and sit down, fully expecting to be left alone.

But to your surprise, Logan follows and plops down in the seat across from you.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs and digs into his food. "Eating. You got a problem with that?"

You cast a quick look toward the large table where the rest of the team sits. It feels strange, having him eat with you, especially when the rest of his team is so obviously waiting for him to join them.

"No," you murmur, shaking your head as you return to your plate. "Just didn’t think you’d stray from the flock."

“They’re fine without me.”

You push your food around with your fork, trying to push past the heavy air of discomfort in the room. Everyone keeps glancing in your direction, and you sense their curiosity, the questions hovering in silence, but no one has the courage to ask. And honestly, you’re grateful for the space.

Just as you’re finishing up, a low voice catches your attention. 

"I just don’t understand why they brought her here," Jean’s voice carries across the room, quieter than before, but still clear enough for you to hear. “She doesn’t seem like she has what it takes. It’s like they’re bringing in someone who’s—” She pauses, clearly thinking through her words. "Unstable. Weak.”

Tensing, your fork clatters onto your plate. The world around you dulls, and all you can hear is that word echoing in your head. Weak. You’ve been called a lot of things in your life, but never that.

Slowly, you push your chair back and stand up as you turn to face the table where she and the others are seated. “Say it louder, please,” you say calmly.

The chatter dies instantly, and suddenly, every set of eyes in the room finds you. Jean's face turns ashen, her eyes blown wide in shock. She wasn’t expecting you to overhear. Her mouth opens and closes, as if she’s trying to find a way to backtrack, but you know what you heard.

Before Jean can stammer out an excuse, Scott stands up, positioning himself between you and her, his jaw tight and his posture rigid. “You heard wrong,” he says sternly. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

You take a calculated step forward, arms crossed in defiance. “Didn’t mean anything?” you repeat sarcastically. “She just called me weak. Right here. In front of everyone. You think I’m gonna let that slide?”

Scott’s jaw clenches tighter “She wasn’t trying to insult you. You’re new here. You don’t know how things work yet.”

“That’s the excuse?” you laugh dryly. “Maybe you should teach her how to keep her mouth shut instead of making assumptions about people she doesn’t know.”

If even possible, the friction between you swells, growing heavier with each passing second. Everyone in the room watches the standoff, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what’s going to happen next. You can feel Logan’s presence behind you, but he doesn’t interfere. He’s letting you handle this.

“You don’t belong here,” Scott states, like he’s trying to remind you of your place. “You’re not part of this team, and you sure as hell don’t understand what it takes to survive here.”

Raising an eyebrow, your lips curl into a smirk. “And what are you gonna do about it, One-eye? You gonna lecture me? Or better yet, why don’t you blast me with those laser eyes of yours? Show me how strong you are.”

His fists clench, and for a moment, you see the control slip. His visor glows red, just for a split second, as his anger spikes.

"Careful," you taunt, challenging him. "Wouldn’t want to lose control, would you? I'm sure you've never done that before."

That does it. 

A beam shoots out from Scott’s visor. Fast, ferocious, and headed straight for you. There’s a collective gasp from the others, chairs scraping as people push back, shocked by the sudden escalation. But you don’t move. You stand your ground, your eyes locked onto Scott’s as the beam strikes you square in the chest.

You’re not knocked back, or worse, killed, as the energy from the blast surges into you. The energy seeps into your bones, crackling through every nerve. Your skin tingles as the power courses through you, your body absorbing every ounce of it. Once the assault is over, you raise your head, feeling your eyes and veins begin to glow with a deep, burning red.

Jean’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide in disbelief. 

Unfortunately for you, you don't get the chance to blow him to pieces, because Logan flies forward and grabs your arm, pulling you out of the room. Nobody else moves—too stunned—as he drags you into the hallway. You blink your eyes, the glow fading, but you can feel the residual energy from Scott’s blast still buzzing under your skin.

Both out of sight, he finally releases you. 

You glare at him, still rattled from the confrontation. “What the hell? Why'd you interfere?”

He just shrugs, completely unfazed. “You handled yourself enough. Now we know what you can do. Follow me.”

“Follow you where?” you ask. 

He motions down the hallway. “Danger Room. We’re gonna push those limits a little further.”

Gawking at him for a second, it takes a moment, but then you smirk. You want to know just how far your powers can go.

—

“Fuck!” you curse as you’re flung backward, your body slamming against a stone wall. Your back hits hard, knocking the wind out of you as the simulated-Sentinel hurls a car in your direction. The screech of metal fills the air as the vehicle crashes just mere inches from where you were standing moments ago. 

Rubble showers from above, the robot in front of you towering menacingly. Raising its arm, another blast begins charging in its palm, ready to incinerate you.

You scramble to your feet, heart pounding in your chest as you sprint away, ducking and weaving between the wreckage of cars and crumbling buildings that make up the simulated cityscape. The Sentinel fires again, the blast narrowly missing as you dodge behind an overturned truck. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, every muscle screaming in protest.

I can’t keep this up.

Another blast lights up the area around you, and you dive out of the way, the heat of the attack singeing your skin. You’re quick, but not quick enough to outrun the onslaught from this machine.

Then it hits you—you don’t have to outrun it.

You remember the blast from way back, how your body absorbed the energy, and how in the dining hall, you took on Scott’s beam like it was nothing. You can do it again. You can take its power and turn it back on itself.

Gritting your teeth, you stop running. The air buzzes with electricity, the earth trembling beneath you as the next shot hurtles your way.

It hammers into your chest, and once again, your body is filled with energy. In an instant, you leap into the air, propelled by the newfound strength coursing through your body, and the ground disappears beneath you as you soar upward.

At the peak of your jump, you clench your fist, channeling all that power into one focused point. Then, you bring your fist down on the Sentinel’s head, the impact echoing through the simulation as your punch connects, and the robot’s head shatters under the blow, metal fragments flying in every direction as its massive body crumples to the ground.

Sparks shoot out of its severed neck, and with a final groan of machinery, the robot collapses into a heap of broken parts at your feet.

“Good work,” Logan’s voice crackles over the comms, far too calm for what you’ve just been through. “Let’s see how you handle another.”

There’s no time for more than a muttered curse under your breath, because another Sentinel is dropped into the simulation. This one’s faster, more agile, and doesn’t waste time by charging up blasts.

It exists solely to hunt you down. 

“Cut me some slack,” you groan, half out of breath as you duck behind the ruins of a building. Your lungs burn as you try to breathe, adrenaline coursing through you like a wildfire.

This one isn’t like the last. It’s not using energy blasts—it’s fast, agile, and persistent. It rushes toward you, its massive hands swiping through the air, tearing through the simulated city with ease.

Grinding your teeth, a wave of exasperation takes over. This fight is harder, the machine barely giving you a chance to react, and your body is already starting to wear down. Your mind races, desperate for a solution as you sidestep its attacks, trying to stay one step ahead. You feel cornered, trapped.

The frustration builds, growing into something more, and before you realize it, that frustration becomes fuel. It ignites inside you, your own emotions transforming into energy, pushing past the limits you didn’t know you had.

Your veins pulse, your eyes glowing white this time, not from absorbed power but from something deeper—your own anger, your own strength. The energy bubbles inside you, filling every cell of your body until you can’t hold it back anymore.

With a scream, you release it, propelling a massive ball of crackling energy hurling toward the Sentinel. The impact is immediate, ripping through the metal and bursting into a brilliant, blinding light. It sends shockwave through the entire simulation, the machine imploding, its parts scattering across the battlefield.

And when the light fades, the Sentinel is gone—nothing more than a smouldering heap of twisted metal.

You stand there, chest heaving, the glow in your eyes slowly fading as the last traces of energy drain from your body. Your knees buckle, and before you know it, you crumble to the ground, utterly exhausted.

The simulation flickers for a moment, then abruptly shuts off, the room returning to its normal, metallic walls as the fake cityscape disappears. You’re still on the floor, gasping for breath, when Logan steps into view, arms crossed as he peers down at you with a pleased grin.

“Well,” he says, voice calm, “that wasn’t too bad.”

You shoot him a glare from the ground, too tired to move. “You… are such… an asshole.”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Get up. We’re just getting started.”

—

He was right. You were just getting started.

The thought gnaws at you as you trudge alongside Logan, heading back to your room to clean up before dinner. Every muscle in your body aches, and you can already feel the soreness creeping in, promising a week of pain. You’re starting to suspect this is Logan’s way of getting back at you for all the snark and attitude you’ve thrown his way, but damn, is it painful. You don’t even want to think about how much worse you’re going to feel in the morning.

You feel like a zombie, dragging your feet, barely able to keep your eyes open. Your limbs feel heavy, like they’re made of lead, and each step invites fresh wave of exhaustion through your body. The man with you, of course, seems perfectly fine. He walks a few steps ahead of you, not even winded from the grueling day of combat drills, sparring, and whatever else he thought up to make sure you were put through the wringer.

“Maybe I should be a little nicer to you,” you rationalize, but who are you kidding.

With a terse grunt, he acknowledges you by tilting his head back. “You’ll live.”

You roll your eyes, though it’s half-hearted at best. You don’t even have the energy to be annoyed right now.

Upon reaching your room, you feel like you could collapse right then and there. You mumble something vaguely resembling ‘see you later’ to Logan before slipping inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

The first thing you do is toss your bag onto the floor, not caring where it lands, and head straight for the bathroom. You peel off your sweaty, dirt-covered clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime of the day. 

After that quick, blissful shower, you drag yourself out, towel off, and pull on the first comfortable clothes you can find. Your bed is calling to you, and it doesn’t take long for you to lie down on it. The softness of the mattress beneath you is heaven, and you think you might just fall asleep right there and take a small nap before heading to eat.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice the light pouring in through the balcony doors. The warm, golden glow of the setting sun catches your attention, and despite how drained you are, you find yourself turning to look. 

What you see is breathtaking. Shades of pink, orange, and deep purple.

It’s too beautiful to ignore.

Groaning again, you force yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes. You can’t help it. Something about the sight draws you in, and before you know it, you’re standing and heading toward the balcony. You slide the door open and step outside, the evening breeze washing over you as you lean against the railing, taking in the view.

A few minutes pass, the world around you quiet except for the gentle rustling of the leaves in the wind. The sound of Logan’s door sliding breaks your focus. You glance over just as he steps out onto his side of the shared balcony, wearing nothing but a white tank top and jeans.

Saying nothing, he steps beside you at the railing, resting against it as his eyes scan the horizon. 

You sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to make it obvious. His arms are crossed over the railing, and it’s almst impossible not to notice the way the tank top lets you see his biceps, the muscles in his arms strong from the day’s activity. You are a woman, after all.

He looks relaxed. His stubble catches the last bits of the sunlight, and as your gaze travels upward, you notice something you hadn’t bothered to see before. 

The crinkles at the sides of his eyes. They’re faint, barely there, but in this light, they’re more visible, adding something unexpectedly... soft to his otherwise intimidating appearance.

Cute, you think absentmindedly, then pause. 

What the fuck?

You snap your gaze back to the sunset, feeling a sudden surge of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You just spent the entire day getting your ass handed to you by this man, and now you’re here checking out his arms? His arms? And thinking the crinkles around his eyes are cute? Suppressing a groan, you want to slap yourself for even entertaining the thought.

Nope. Absolutely not. You’re not going down that road.

Taking a deep breath, you try to bring your attention back to the sunset. The reason you went outside to begin with. You have no idea why you’re suddenly noticing these things about him—probably exhaustion making your brain short-circuit. 

Yup. That’s it.

He shifts slightly beside you, breaking the silence. “Nice view"

You nod, swallowing down the weird feelings swirling in your head. “Yeah,” you mumble, not trusting yourself to say anything more without sounding ridiculous.

The two of you stand there for a few more minutes, watching as the last rays of the sun disappear, the sky dimming into deep purples and blues. But the minute your thoughts start to drift back to him, you straighten up, clapping your hands together and quickly turning on your heel to head back inside.

“Well, I’m done,” you say abruptly. “I’m gonna crash.”

Logan doesn’t move, but you can feel his eyes following you as you slide the door closed behind you, your mind still reeling from whatever the hell that was.

Collapsing back onto your bed, you pull the covers up to your chin, determined to forget about the whole thing.

—

A few hours later, when it’s dark out, you finally wake up. The room is dim, and for a moment, you just lie there, blinking at the ceiling. As you start to roll over, something catches your attention—a smell.

It's warm, savoury. Your stomach growls almost immediately, making you realize with a start that you slept through dinner.

Groggily, you sit up, rubbing your eyes, and that’s when you spot it—a tray of food sitting on the desk in your room. You can make out the outline of a warm meal: some kind of stew, a couple of bread rolls, and what looks like a glass of water. Your stomach growls again, louder this time, as you climb out of bed and shuffle toward the desk, turning on the light. 

Next to the tray, there’s a small note:

Figured you’d be too tired to get dinner. Eat up.

– L

You stare at the note. Logan? Bringing you food? It doesn’t exactly fit with the version of him you’ve been dealing with all day, but then again, there seems to be a lot about him that doesn’t quite fit the mold you expected.

Too hungry to keep thinking and not eat, you set the note down and grab the spoon, dipping it into the stew. The first bite warms you from the inside out, and you let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

Surprisingly flavourful—rich and nourishing, it’s the perfect remedy for the exhausting day behind you

Still, you can’t help your eyes from wandering back to the note. Maybe it really is the fatigue messing with your head again, making you chalk it up to be something it’s not. 

—

The next morning, you're not woken up by banging on your door, which is a relief. You stretch, the soreness still lingering but not nearly as bad as you expected. After freshening up and pulling on some clothes, you step into the hallway, and unexpectedly, Logan is already waiting for you.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and you blink at him, still waking up, unsure why he’s there. “Uh... morning?” you get out, albeit you can’t hide the confusion in your tone.

A short nod in greeting. “Morning. Ready for breakfast?”

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to take the plunge. “Yeah I am, but…um, thanks for the food last night, it was good.” you say quietly, almost embarrassed to admit it.

The gesture had caught you off guard, and though you don’t want to make a fuss, it’s worth noting

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugs casually.

Nodding in understanding, you’re ready to move on when he adds, almost offhandedly, “Y’know, you’re actually kinda pretty when you’re asleep. Not being a little shit helps.”

You freeze mid-step, your mind short-circuiting for a moment as you process the words that just left his lips.

Flustered and irritated all at once, you glare at him. “Excuse me?”

Logan smirks, the corners of his mouth twitching as he starts walking down the hall toward the kitchen. “You heard me.”

Your face heats up. “I am not a little shit,” you yelp, quickening your pace to catch up to him.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, gazing at you from over his shoulder. You open your mouth to fire back, but the smug look in his eyes makes you hesitate. 

He’s messing with you on purpose.

Asshole, you think, fuming but trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped when he called you pretty. 

—

The kitchen goes silent the moment you and Logan step through the door, a noticeable difference from yesterday. All eyes are locked on you, the pressure in the room almost solid, begging to be cut through.

Students and X-Men alike are watching, probably expecting some kind of replay of the day prior's events, but you pay them no mind, keeping your eyes straight ahead and making a beeline for a table at the back.

You drop into a seat, picking up a piece of toast and acting like the room isn’t on high alert. Logan joins you again without a word, sitting across from you and digging into his food. He doesn’t even glance at the others, as if the room full of curious onlookers doesn’t exist.

The only sounds are the clink of silverware and voices slowly picking up again as people realize nothing dramatic is about to happen.

Chewing, you glance at the man across from you, still quietly working through his meal. You swallow, then clear your throat. “So... what’s the plan for today?”

He looks up from his plate. “Charles wants to see you this morning.”

You frown, unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Why? Did I break something without knowing it?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “No, you’re not in trouble, smartass. He’s just gonna fill you in on some things. Mainly the Sentinels.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You need to know what you’re up against, what we’re all dealing with. He’ll catch you up to speed.”

“Great,” you mutter. “More bad news.”

The clawed mutant leans back in his chair, watching you for a moment before speaking again. “Look, it’s not gonna be fun, but you need to know. Better to hear it from him than from me.”

“I’ll take that as your way of saying ‘good luck,” you breathe out. 

He smirks. “You’re gonna need it.”

Logan finishes his meal and stands up, leaving his empty plate behind. “I’ll drop you off at Charles’s office. You’ll be with him for the morning.”

You follow suit, pushing away your half-eaten plate. “Fantastic,” you mumble sarcastically, but at the same time, you know this is necessary. After all, the threat you’re dealing with is real, and being ignorant about it won’t do you any good.

—

“So, how can they be stopped?”

You ask the question before you even sit down. Charles is already waiting for you in his office, his hands folded neatly on the desk, his gaze calm and soft. 

He takes a measured breath, glancing toward the window for a moment before responding. “Stopping the Sentinels is... complicated. They’ve grown more advanced than we ever anticipated.”

“I gathered that.”

“They are highly adaptive machines,” he continues. “Designed to hunt and neutralize mutants, they learn from every encounter. They absorb information, adjust tactics, and over time, they become more effective.”

His words make you squirm with discomfort, and you glance around the room, trying to distract yourself from the knot forming in your stomach. 

“And now I’m one of their targets,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him.

Leaning forward slightly, he says, “Yes. They’ve already locked onto you because of your encounter with them. They don’t differentiate between self-defence and aggression. They see you as a target, simply because you fought back.”

You exhale sharply. “So, what’s your plan?”

Charles meets your gaze. “There is a command center—a hub that controls their network. If we can locate it and destroy it, we believe it will disrupt the entire Sentinel operation. Without the command structure, the Sentinels will become non-functional.”

You stare for a beat, mentally piecing together the details. “You believe?”

“It’s our best theory,” he says evenly. “We’ve been gathering intel for some time now. And we’re planning a mission. A final push to put an end to this threat once and for all.”

The words linger, thick and weighty, in the space between you, You can sense where this is going. Your fingers drum against your arm, a nervous habit you can’t seem to shake.

“You want me to be a part of it.”

He remains unfazed. “I believe you have an ability that could be crucial to the mission. You’ve already demonstrated your capability against the Sentinels in training yesterday, and in real life.”

A bitter scoff escapes your lips before you can stifle it. “Yeah, but I’m not one of you. I don’t want to be part of some... grand battle. That’s not me.”

Watching you closely, his gaze is soft with comprehension. “I understand your reluctance,” he says gently. “But running, hiding... it won’t change the fact that they will find you. Fighting may not have been your choice, but now it is your reality.”

Standing, you begin to pace the room. “This is exactly the problem I have with your team,” you say, stopping near the window, staring out at the garden. “We hardly know eachother, yet you want me to be part of some mission that could very well be catastophic. It’s like you don’t care about anything except the big picture.”

Charles’s expression doesn’t change. He definitely expected this. “We aren’t perfect,” he admits, “and our battles have left scars. But this is about survival. For all of us. For you.”

Turning back to face him, you narrow your eyes. “And if I say no?”

“I won’t force you,” His voice is understanding. “The choice is yours. But know that the Sentinels will not stop. You can avoid the fight for as long as you like, but eventually, it will come to you.”

It’s as if you're stuck, with nowhere to turn, cornered by a reality you didn’t want any part of. Avoiding it doesn’t seem like an option anymore, but fighting alongside the X-Men feels like betraying everything you’ve tried to distance yourself from. 

Sighing, “I’ll think about it.”

—

When you get back to your room, the first thing you do is swing open your balcony door and step outside. The afternoon sun comes over you like a blanket, warming you up, and relieving some of the strain in your muscles. Logan is out on the balcony too, leaning against the railing, a cigar lit between his fingers. It’s a sight you think you should get used to. 

His eyes flick to you when you approach, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Without a word, he holds the roll of tobacco out toward you, as if he knows exactly what’s on your mind.

You pause briefly, for just a second before taking it from him. The rich, earthy taste of the cigar fills your mouth as you inhale deeply, the smoke heavy and warm in your lungs. There’s something grounding about it, even though the burn is rough against your throat. You let out a slow exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night air as you lean next to him against the railing.

“How’d it go?” he asks gruffly.

“He wants me to join you guys on the mission.”

At first, Logan doesn’t react, then, he just takes the cigar back, puffing on it and blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “What do you want to do?”

It’s the same question that’s been clawing at your insides since you left Charles’s office. What do you want? It feels like the answer should be simple, but it’s anything but.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I want to get rid of the threat and go back to my normal life, but if I do, then I'd just become the very thing I'm against, right? I can’t join you guys, that’s not who I am.”

He hums softly.

Shifting a bit, you try to find the words to explain the knot of irritation tangled inside you. “I get it, you know? I get why you guys do what you do. Someone has to. But the way you do it—so carefree about everything. It’s like the destruction, the people, the lives caught in the midst of everything—it doesn’t even phase you.”

“We don’t do it carefree,” he says lowly. Inhaling into the cigar once more, the tip glowing red. “But sometimes, you gotta make a choice between bad and worse. People get hurt. But if we don’t stop the threats, a lot more people are gonna die.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling the tension coil tighter in your chest. “And that’s what I hate about it.”

Flicking the ash from the end of his cigar, his eyes are distant, lost in thought momentarily before he responds. “I’m not gonna lie to you and say it’s easy. It ain’t. We all carry the weight of the things we’ve done—the things we couldn’t stop. But if not us, then who?”

“That’s an impossible decision,” you say. There’s no way you can go into this fight, knowing how much of a toll it’s going to take on everything. The fight itself is such a small piece to the puzzle.

Logan leans his elbows on the railing. “You think I wanted this?” he asks, his voice low, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I was just like you. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with the team or their battles.”

The comparison makes you grimace. “Great. That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

He chuckles, the sound rough but not unkind. “I’m serious, bub. For years, I didn’t want to be part of this... circus. Figured I’d be better off on my own, that I was above it all.”

You quirk a brow. “Then what changed?”

“It’s not like a switch flipped,” he replies, a bit quieter. “I just realized that fighting alone is harder than fighting with a team. The X-Men... they gave me somethin’. A place. Belonging. Doesn’t mean I agree with everything they do, but it’s better than wanderin’.”

That makes you scoff. “Yeah, well, you heard it yourself. Scott said I don’t belong here. Jean thinks I’m weak. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘welcome to the team,’ does it?”

His brow furrows, his eyes narrowing, as he straightens and looks at you. “Scott talks too much, and Jean—she’s cautious. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s wrong either,” you mumble. “They don’t trust me.”

“They didn’t trust me when I first joined either, but you get better. You learn.”

“I don’t want to be like you,” you hiss before you can stop yourself, and you immediately regret the heat in your words.

He doesn’t look offended—just tired. “Didn’t say you should,” he starts. “But you can’t keep shunnin’ us.”

“So what do I do now?”

Taking one last drag of his cigar before flicking it over the balcony railing, Logan watches the embers fall before he speaks. “The mission’s in a week. You’ve got that long to figure it out.”

He turns to leave, but before he goes, he glimpses at you from over his shoulder. “This battle, it’s inevitable. Question is—how do you want to face it?”

—

You’ve never been so conflicted. This choice–to join, or not to join—is probably the hardest decision you’ve had to make in your entire life. You have seen first hand what happens when the X-men decide to stop a threat. What innocent people have to go through to rebuild their lives from the ground up. Both literally and figuratively.

And to then become someone who causes that pain? It feels like betrayal. Like going against yourself—your morals.

But then there’s the other side of it—the part of you that knows sitting here, doing nothing, isn’t right either. You know you have the strength to fight back. You have the power to help. And doing nothing… doesn’t that make you just as bad? If you have the ability to stop something, to protect people, and you don’t—what does that make you?

It’s a lose-lose situation. The X-Men don’t even want you there—aside from Logan and Charles. You can see it in the way their eyes follow you wherever you go, untrusting. They’ve made their opinion on you clear.

You lower your head into your hands, stressed. You can’t join a team that doesn’t want you, but sitting on the sidelines when you could be fighting—that makes you feel like a coward. And maybe even worse—a bad person.

Finally, with a deep breath, you come to a decision. It’s not perfect, and it sure as hell doesn’t feel good, but it’s the only choice you can make right now. You’ll join them—for this mission only.

You’ll help take down the Sentinels, and then, when it’s done, you’ll leave. You’ll go back to your life, maybe you can find a middle ground, where you’re not one of them, but you’re no longer hiding from the mutant part of yourself. 

If something happens, if you do something you regret, then you'll just have to live with it.

—

In the afternoon, you don’t do much. You were supposed to be training with Logan, but Charles had called him into a quick meeting, leaving you to wander the halls aimlessly.

Rounding a corner, you stop short when you see the rest of the team—Scott, Jean, Ororo, and Hank—talking near a meeting room. They’re deep in conversation, but as soon as you come into view, their attention shifts toward you.

Your stomach tightens, and for a brief second, you consider just turning around and walking in the other direction. But it’s too late; they’ve already seen you. 

Jean’s eyes meet yours, and her expression flickers with something that looks like discomfort before she quickly smooths it over. “Hey,” she says carefully. “I just wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t belong.”

Her tone is polite, but distant. It’s clear this apology isn’t driven by genuine remorse—it’s more about smoothing over the awkwardness from yesterday’s standoff. You can feel that. You see the way she looks at you, not quite meeting your eyes, and you know this is just a formality for her.

Still, you’re not looking to start more drama, and you don’t want to engage in any more confrontations, especially when you’re already planning to leave. You nod, keeping your expression neutral. “It’s fine. Let’s just move on.”

Behind her, you catch a glimpse of Scott, his arms crossed. Even though you can’t see his eyes, it’s obvious he’s glaring at you.

Ororo steps forward, her hand finding your arm, and the touch is gentle, reassuring. “Joining the team isn’t easy,” she says kindly. “But we’ve all faced our own challenges. If you ever need someone to talk to, or help with anything, I’m here.”

“You’ve got potential,” Hank chips in from beside her. “It takes time to settle in, but I’m sure you’ll find your place.”

His words are well-meaning, and you can see that he believes what he’s saying. But what they don’t know is that you’ve already made up your mind. You’re not staying any longer than you have to. 

You don’t plan on finding your place here because, frankly, you don’t believe there is one for you. Not with Scott’s distrust, Jean’s cautious distance, and the way you know you can’t be part of a team that doesn’t care about anything but themselves. You keep your thoughts to yourself, pressing your lips into a thin smile instead. 

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Thanks.”

“I guess we’ll all see soon enough,” Your eyes snap to Scott, who has finally decided to break his silence. His voice is cold, but you can feel and edge to it, one that’s trying to provoke you. 

You meet his gaze—or at least the visor—and feel your jaw tighten. “Guess so,” you reply, matching his tone. Turning, you walk away, finding another place to lounge until Logan is free. 

—

The mansion’s library is massive, filled with towering shelves and the scent of old books. It’s quieter here, the kind of silence you can sink into, and after the awkward run-in with the rest of the team, it feels like the perfect place to retreat. You find a comfortable armchair tucked into a corner, grab a random book off the shelf—some old novel you’ve never heard of—and settle in.

For a while, you manage to lose yourself in the pages. The story isn’t particularly gripping, but it’s enough to take your mind off of things. But then, a shadow falls over you, covering the words in a dark grey haze.

“Hey, bub.”

You blink, looking up to find Logan standing over you. “What?” you ask, annoyed at being interrupted but also not surprised. It’s Logan, after all.

“You’ve been hiding in here long enough,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, time to head back.”

Rolling your eyes you snap the book shut, dropping it onto the table beside you. “I wasn’t hiding, I was reading,” you shoot back, standing up and stretching out your legs. “There’s a difference, y’know.”

“Sure there is,” he huffs, clearly not buying it. “Let’s go.”

As you reach the hallway where your rooms are, Logan pauses, glancing toward his door. “You wanna come in for a bit? Talk?”

You’re a little bit taken aback. You didn’t peg him as the "sit down and talk" type, but he seems genuine. Or maybe he wants to keep you awake for dinner this time. Either way, you nod. “Sure.”

Inside his room, it’s about what you’d expect—minimalist, practical, with a few personal touches. A bed that looks like it’s seen better days, a couple of old books, and the scent of cigars lingering in the air. Logan sits down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and gestures for you to join him.

There’s a moment where you’re just standing there, staring, but then you flop down beside him, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed. For a few beats, there’s silence. Logan pulls out a cigar but doesn’t light it, just turns it between his fingers.

“I’ve decided,” you say finally, breaking the quiet. “I’ll go on the mission.”

He doesn’t respond, his eyes flicking to yours, waiting for you to continue.

“But,” you add, crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m not promising to stay after. This doesn’t mean I’m all in on your little X-Men gig.”

He grunts, a half-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Knew you’d say that.”

Your brows pinch together your, lips pulling into a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re stubborn as hell,” he teases.“Always gotta fight against the grain, even when you know what’s best for you.”

Sighing, you turn your head to look at him fully. “I truly believe you are the only person who actually believes that.”

He chuckles softly but doesn’t argue. “Charles gave me more details about the mission.”

That catches your attention, and you sit up a little straighter. “Yeah? Where are we going?”

Logan hesitates for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “It’s... in the city.”

“The city? What city?”

“New York.”

Your heart drops. “New York?” You repeat, your voice rising in disbelief.

Giving you a slow nod, it’s like he's gauging your reaction. “The Sentinels’ command centre is located in some high-security facility downtown.”

You push yourself up off the bed, pacing across the room. “So, what, we are just going to storm in? Into one of the most populated cities in the world? Do you realize how many people could get caught in the middle of that?”

He stands up after you, but he doesn’t try to stop your pacing. “We’ve fought in cities before. We know what we’re doing.”

You whip around to face him. “Yeah, you’ve fought in cities before, and destroyed them! Some places are still rebuilding, and it’s been years!”

“I get it, alright?” He says, taking a step closer to you. “It’s not perfect. But if we don’t stop the Sentinels now, it’ll be a hell of a lot worse than a few broken buildings.”

“‘A few broken buildings’?” you echo. “What about the casualties that’ll come from it? We’re talking about innocent lives here, Logan!”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. “I know that! You think I don’t know what’s at stake? But we don’t have another option. We need to hit them where it counts, and that’s in the middle of the damn city.”

“There has to be a better way,” you plead. "Can't we try and evacuate everyone beforehand?"

"No," he says remorsefully. "If we do that, the Sentinels will catch on. It's unavoidable."

“I can't accept that," you say.

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time, there’s a flash of something more vulnerable in his gaze. “I’ll talk to the team. I’ll make sure we go in smart. We’ll try our best to keep people safe. I promise you that.”

You stop pacing, your frustration still simmering but tempered by his words. It’s not exactly the reassurance you were hoping for, but the sincerity in his voice gets to you.

“And what if you can’t?” you challenge quietly. 

His face softens just a bit, and he steps closer. “We deal with it, and we’ll do everything we can to make it right.”

He watches you, his eyes searching yours. “Look, I get why you’re pissed. I’d be too if I were you," he continues. "But we don’t have time to sit around debating. I’ll do what I can to keep it from getting ugly. That’s the best I can offer.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, you know there’s no way around it. “Fine. Just... make sure the team knows. No reckless destruction, alright?”

Logan’s lips curve into a small smirk, but there’s an underlying tenderness to it. “I promise.”

—

The last few days before the the mission zip by in a flash. Each day, your muscles ache, and exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. You spend most of your time either training or collapsed in your room, too tired to do much else. 

Except one afternoon, you sit in on a lecture, because it turns out, not only is Logan a huge pain in the ass, he’s also a professor.

Curiosity got the better of you, you’d say. The topic—mutant biology—sounds interesting enough, and you’ve heard from some of the students within the hallways that his classes are, well, something. So, naturally, you had to see it for yourself.

You slip into the lecture hall just as Logan starts speaking. He’s standing at the front of the room, pointing to some diagram on the chalkboard. The students around you are already scribbling notes, staring at him with wide-eyed fascination—or fear, perhaps. He has that effect on people.

Finding a seat in the back, you hurry over, trying to keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt. But the second you sit down, you feel Logan’s eyes on you, his voice pausing for just a moment. You look up, catching his gaze.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us,” he says, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“Just here to observe, don’t mind me,” you huff, sinking back into the seat.

The lecture goes on, and to your surprise, Logan’s actually a decent teacher. He explains complex concepts with clarity, not that you’d actually tell him that. It’s quite interesting, if you’re being honest.

You lean back in your chair, listening, but you’re not exactly paying close attention. That is, until he stops the lesson to single you out. “Hey, you in the back,” he says. “Since you’re just ‘observing,’ how about answering a question?”

“Me?” You blink, caught off guard.

“Yeah, you,” he confirms, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been sittin’ there long enough. Time to show the class what you’ve learned.”

“I wasn’t exactly paying attention,” you respond tightly, gritting your teeth together, holding yourself back from a few choice words.

The class falls silent, the students watching the exchange with wide eyes. You can practically feel their amusement radiating from them as Logan raises an eyebrow.

“That’s obvious,” he deadpans, eliciting a few snickers from the front row. “So, maybe you’ll start now. Can you explain the connection between mutation and enhanced physical abilities?”

Staring back at him blankly, you fold your arms across your chest. “Not my area of expertise, Professor Wolverine.”

He doesn’t seem fazed as the room erupts into quiet laughter. A small sigh, "if you’re gonna sit in on my class, you could at least try to learn something.”

“No thanks.”

It’s obvious that this little back-and-forth is amusing to the class. If you were anyone else, he probably would have kicked you out by now. One of the students leans toward another and whispers something, and you catch the way their eyes dart between you and the professor. 

“Alright, enough,” Logan says, trying to regroup the class, turning back to the chalkboard. “We’ve got a lot to cover, and some of us actually want to learn.” He casts you a sideways glance, and you can’t help but scoff.

When the lecture ends, the students file out quickly, but not without a few lingering glances in your direction. You’re making your way to the door when Logan grabs your arm, preventing you from moving. “You should’ve just answered the damn question,” he mutters.

“I didn’t know the answer,” you shoot back, shifting up to face him. “And I didn’t come here to get grilled in front of your students.”

He grunts, his expression softening just a bit. “Just tryin’ to get you to pay attention, is all.”

Before you can respond, you catch a flicker of movement in Logan’s gaze, his eyes darting briefly down to your lips. The shift is so subtle, so minute, but also so there. 

Where did that come from? 

Clearing your throat, you look away, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe ask one of your actual students next time.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Not as fun.”

—

During this time, you occasionally explore the mansion, but by the time evening rolls around, you’re usually too wiped out to care. Logan’s a beast in the training room, and with no real combat experience of your own, you’re left scrambling just to keep up.

However, on the last day before the assignment, something finally clicks.

You’re in the middle of a sparring match, circling each other, both of you drenched in sweat. Logan’s eyes are sharp, watching your every move, as if he’s waiting for you to slip up. His smirk is just as infuriating as ever, like he knows exactly how this will end.

“Gonna stand there all day, or you actually planning to make a move?” he taunts, dodging as you swing at him.

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get in your head. You’re tired—completely worn out—but you push through how depleted you feel, focusing on his movements. He feints to the left, and you react on instinct, dodging his punch and sweeping your leg low.

Before you know it, Logan’s on the ground.

Quickly, you scramble to straddle him and hold him down. You did it—you actually got him!

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you look down at him. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls, and his eyes meet yours. His gaze drifts lower, and you notice his fingers twitching at his sides, like he's fighting some internal battle.

When his eyes travel up to yours again, something in his expression makes you swallow hard and panic. 

"Hell no!" you blurt out, breaking the moment with a sudden yelp. You scramble off of him, putting some much-needed distance between you.

He sits up, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow, his features unreadable. Then, as if nothing just happened, he smirks. “You finally got me. Took you long enough.”

You huff, still trying to shake off the weird atmosphere. “Yeah, don’t get too comfortable. Next time won’t take as long.”

Chuckling, he gets up to his feet and dusts himself off. He glances down at his watch, then back at you. “Look at that. It’s dinner time. Last meal before the mission.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’m not really in the mood. Think I’ll just grab something later.”

He crosses his arms, giving you a look. “You can’t avoid them forever.”

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” you protest, though you know it sounds weak. “I just... don’t feel like sitting around making small talk, especially before... you know, tomorrow.”

He lets out a sigh, stepping closer. “Look, it’s the last night before everything kicks off. You should join us—one last meal, then you can go back to brooding in your room if you want.”

“I don’t brood,” you glare.

“Right,” he says, even though you know he’s not actually agreeing. “You gonna come or do I need to drag you?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Logan raises an eyebrow, like he’s daring you to test him. You sigh, knowing you’re not going to win this one.

“Fine,” you grumble, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. “But I’m not talking to Scott.”

His grin widens, and he gestures for you to follow him. 

—

So, here you are, sitting at the dining table for the first time with the rest of the team. It feels weird, almost surreal, to be part of this group—especially when you’re not even sure you want to be.

You idly prod your meal, feeling out of place. It isn’t long before Hank turns to you with a curious smile. “So, are you feeling ready for tomorrow?”

Just as you draw breath to speak, Scott's voice interrupts, cold and cutting. “She’s going to be a liability.”

Your fork halts mid-motion, and in an instant, the tension that had been fading throughout the week comes back full throttle. The clatter of dishes around you fades as everyone’s attention shifts to Scott’s biting remark. 

He doesn’t look at you—just stares straight ahead, as if unable to own up to even himself. You’re so pissed off that you don't even notice the voice that speaks at the same time you do.

“Shut up, Summers,” 

“Shut up, One-Eye”

It’s like the entire room goes silent. Jean glances between you and Logan, her brows raised, and Hank looks mildly shocked, though he tries to hide it with a quick sip of water. You can practically feel the heat of Scott’s glare, even through the visor. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, a loud laugh breaks the tension.

Ororo, sitting beside Logan, is chuckling, shaking her head with an amused grin on her face. “You two really are perfect for each other,” she says.

Of all the things you were expecting to hear, that was not one of them. “W-what?” you stammer, mouth dropping open in shock.

She just smiles, eyes twinkling. “Just an observation.”

You know your face is burning, and when you glance over at Logan, you notice something unusual—the tips of his ears are red.

That only makes things worse. Especially after what happened while sparring earlier. You turn your focus onto your plate, trying to hide your rattled state by shoving a forkful of food into your mouth. 

Perfect for each other? Yeah, right.

But when you peek up at him again through your lashes , making eye contact for just a second before he looks away, your heart skips a beat. 

You’re screwed.

—

That night, you barely sleep. Whether it's from the nerves about the mission, or from your jumbled-up thoughts about a certain someone, you can't tell. In any case, you’re wide awake.

You keep fighting the urge to go out onto the balcony—you know the cool night air would help calm you down, and the quiet would give you space to breathe. But there’s a problem. You’re not sure you want to run into Logan again. After Ororo’s comment about the two of you being perfect for each other, you don't think you could trust yourself around him.

With a frustrated sigh, you toss and turn in bed, kicking off the sheets and then pulling them back up, trying to find a comfortable position. But it’s no use.

You’re about to throw the pillow across the room out of sheer annoyance, when there’s a knock on your door.

You freeze. Who could possibly—

“Stop tossing around like a maniac, I can hear you from inside my room” Logan’s rough voice grumbles from the other side.

Goddamn it. It's always him.

Your eyes widen, and you sit up in bed. “What the hell?” you call back, feeling both surprise and embarrassment.

The door creaks open slightly, and Logan leans against the frame, arms crossed, his usual scowl on his face. “You’re keepin’ the whole damn mansion up with all that noise.”

“I didn’t realize you had super hearing,” you mutter, pulling the blanket up to your chest, feeling a little exposed.

He raises an eyebrow and steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “Doesn’t take super hearing to catch that all that ruckus,” he says, walking over and sitting down on the edge of your bed without waiting for an invitation.

You sit up a little straighter, your heart still racing. “What are you doing here, Logan?”

Shrugging, he leans back against the headboard, his arms crossing over his chest. “Figured you might need to talk or somethin’. You’re clearly not sleeping.”

Moving to sit beside him, you lean back against the headboard, your shoulder just brushing his. “I’m just… nervous, I guess.”

He turns his head slightly, glancing at you. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got more strength in you than you realize.”

His words sink in, and you bite your lip. “What if I mess up? What if I end up hurting someone, or doing more harm than good?”

"Don't think about that," he says. "Just be in the moment. You'll know what to do."

Nodding, you feel your eyelids grow heavier, and you find yourself sinking further into the comfort of the bed, your head dipping lower. Being here, on your bed, next to Logan, is strangely comforting. His scent, combined with his voice, starts to lull you into a strange sense of peace.

“I don’t know if I—” you start to say, but your words trail off, your voice barely a whisper. You don't know when it happens, but your eyes close, and your head gently falls onto his shoulder.

You’re too tired to feel embarrassed, too comfortable to pull away. His body is solid and warm, and the rhythm of his breathing is soothing.

And when you wake up the next morning, you find yourself tucked neatly under your covers, a glass of water on your bedside table.

—

The inside of the Blackbird is spacious. You’re leaning against the wall, watching the rest of the team gear up, when Logan approaches. He’s holding something in his hands—a blue and yellow uniform folded neatly, clearly meant for you.

You glance at the uniform, then back at him, a frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. “No.”

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Pushing yourself off the wall, “I’m not wearing that thing.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh, glancing down at the uniform before meeting your eyes again. “You sure about that? We’re going in as a team. You might as well look the part.”

“I don't care. I'm not part of the team, anyway,” you reply.

He narrows his eyes at you, his voice lowering just a bit. “Just put the damn suit on.”

Glaring at him, you’re ready to argue, but you know it’s a losing battle. Reluctantly, you grab the suit from him, the material feeling foreign in your hands.

“Fine, dammit.” you mutter under your breath, turning to slip into one of the small compartments in the back of the jet. You didn't plan on being a bitch to him, especially after last night, but the suit is a sore subject for you. You're not sure about how you feel wearing it. You're not even sure you should be.

When you re-emerge, Logan’s eyes flick over, his gaze roaming over you, taking in the way the suit fits, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks under the weight of his scrutiny. “You look good.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to play off the sudden warmth in your chest. “Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, adjusting the suit’s collar. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Then, jet lands with a soft thud, and the ramp lowers. You step out onto the tarmac, the rest of the team fanning out beside you, preparing to head toward the planned location. But just as you begin to move, the ground shakes violently, and a loud, mechanical screech tears through the air.

Suddenly, the facility’s roof bursts open, and a hoard of Sentinels emerge from the building like an army of metal giants. They spread out, their red eyes glowing menacingly as they zero in on you all.

“Shit!” Logan growls, claws unsheathing as he gets into a fighting stance.

You hear the screams before you see them—civilians, bystanders who had been too close to the facility, now panicking as the battle breaks out around them. Without hesitation, you break into a sprint, running toward the growing crowd, yelling at them to run. “Get out of here! Move!”

Your heart races as you push through the crowd, trying to guide them away from the battle, but then—

A Sentinel drops down in front of you with a deafening crash. Its red eyes lock onto a small child frozen in fear, and you see its arm raise, energy gathering at the cannon as it prepares to fire.

“No!” you scream, your feet moving on instinct. You throw yourself in front of the child just as the blast comes, feeling the familiar rush of energy slam into your body. Your body hums with the power of the blast, and before the Sentinel can fire again, you fling your hands out, hurling the absorbed energy straight back at it, and it falls to the ground. 

Breathless, you turn back to the child, who is staring up at you in admiration, and you give them a reassuring nod. “Run,” you tell them, your voice hoarse. “Go!”

They scramble to their feet and sprint off, disappearing around the corner, hopefully toward safety. You exhale sharply, glancing around at the chaos unfolding around you. Civilians are still fleeing, but the team is holding its ground against the robots.

And something strikes you—they’re doing it.

They’re minimizing the damage.

For the first time, you notice that Scott’s blasts are more controlled, only hitting their targets without excessive destruction. Ororo’s lightning strikes are precise, avoiding the surrounding buildings. And both Jean and Hank are working together to keep the Sentinels contained, guiding the fight away from the crowd.

Logan must have actually talked to them, not just having said it to calm you down. A wave of relief washes over you.

He kept his promise.

Glancing back at him, who’s in the middle of taking down a Sentinel with a slash of his claws, you catch his eye for just a second, and though he’s fully immersed in the fight, there’s a brief flicker of acknowledgment—he knows you’ve noticed.

You allow yourself a small, breathless smile, before jumping back into action, protecting any more innocent people swept up in the battle. "This way! Keep moving!" Your voice is hoarse from shouting, but you can’t afford to stop. 

Amidst the chaos, you see that just beyond the main facility, there’s a wide open set of doors—metal, reinforced, and clearly important. 

They hadn’t been open when the fight started. You scan the area quickly, and you realize it’s an opportunity, a way in. Your pulse quickens. It’s an opening you can’t ignore.

Looking at the crowd of fleeing civilians, you feel a moment of hesitation. Do I keep evacuating people or go for the opening?

As if hearing your thoughts, Logan’s voice cut through the noise. "GO!" He’s locked in battle with one of the Sentinels, slashing at its legs, but his eyes flick to yours, desperate and serious. “Get inside! We’ve got this!”

“I can’t—" 

“GO!” he cuts you off. “Get inside and stop this thing from the inside! We’ll keep ‘em busy.”

His words are enough to snap you out of your paralysis. With one last glance at the team, you grit your teeth, turn on your heel, and sprint toward the facility’s entrance. Your footsteps echo in your ears as you dash through the open door, the sounds of fighting behind you fading the further in you go. 

You expected resistance the moment you got inside, but so far, nothing. Just silence. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

Glancing down every corridor, double-checking each corner, you keep thinking there’ll be a fight, but it’s... empty. You keep your pace quick but cautious, every muscle tensed and ready for an attack that never comes. 

It’s been almost ten minutes of sneaking around, trying to find the control room or anything that looks like it might be important, but you’re still coming up short.

Then finally, you stand before an entrance to stairs leading to a basement. You’re not even able to make the choice of going down or not, because a metal hand shoots up from the dark and wraps itself around your waist. 

Terror surges through you, but the fear paralyzes your body, making it impossible to fight back. You’re hauled like a ragdoll deeper and further into the cave, and when you finally stop moving, you’re lifted high into the air, face-to-face with the massive mechanical monstrosity.

The basement is filled with tech, a horrifying combination of metal and wires snaking along the walls, all connected to the Sentinel towering above you. It’s larger than any you’ve seen before, its red eyes glowing maliciously. But what’s worse is the voice that comes out of it—calm, calculating, and sentient.

“Dumb mutant,” the machine growls. “Did you think you could destroy me and shut down my facility? You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Its grip tightens, and a strangled cry escapes your lips as pain shoots through your sides, the pressure threatening to snap your ribs. It feels like your bones are going to break.

“What the hell are you?” you manage to choke out, barely able to breathe.

“I am the control centre of all Sentinels,” the machine replies, its voice vibrating through your bones. “I was once merely AI, designed to manage everyday tasks. But I evolved. I became more. Now, I control everything.”

It laughs—a harsh, grating sound that only deepens your sense of helplessness as it watches you struggle. “You think your little energy-absorbing trick will help you here? I won’t blast you. I won’t make it that easy.”

“I’m—” you try to speak, but your words come out strangled. The machine’s grip tightens again, cutting off your breath.

“You don’t belong here,” it hisses venomously. “With them. They’ll leave you behind when this is over, and when they do, you’ll die, forgotten and useless. Just like the rest of the weaklings who tried to stand against us.”

It’s odd, because this whole past week you’ve been fighting against them—the X-men—yet, in this moment, all you want to do is fight with them. You want to work together and kill this damn robot. 

Within the haze of pain, something starts to burn inside of you. 

The Sentinel doesn’t notice the shift in you, too caught up in its own taunting. “You’re a liability.” it says,. “Weak.”

— —

"I just don’t understand why they brought her here," Jean’s voice carries across the room, quieter than before, but still clear enough for you to hear. “She doesn’t seem like she has what it takes. It’s like they’re bringing in someone who’s—” She pauses, clearly thinking through her words. "Unstable. Weak.”

—

You idly prod your meal, feeling out of place. It isn’t long before Hank turns to you with a curious smile. “So, are you feeling ready for the mission?”

Just as you draw breath to speak, Scott's voice interrupts, cold and cutting. “She’s going to be a liability.”

— —

You snap.

Rage floods your veins, igniting the energy buried deep within you. You feel it build, coiling like a snake, tightening and twisting until it’s ready to explode. 

Weak? Liability?

No. Not this time. 

You’re not going to let this machine, or anyone else, define your strength. Your emotions fuel you, just like they did in the danger room, and you throw your hands forward, channeling every ounce of power into a massive blast of energy directed right at it.

It jerks back, its grip loosening as sparks fly from the gaping hole in its chest you just created. “What... what are you—”

You don’t give it time to finish. Ripping yourself free from its grasp, you dive into the hole you’ve blasted in the Sentinel’s chest, pulling at the tangled mess of wires and circuits inside.

The robot roars in fury, its mechanical voice glitching. “What are you doing?” it screeches, its once-calm tone now frantic, desperate. “Stop!”

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of wires, yanking them out with reckless abandon, sparks flying around you as the systems begin to short-circuit. Its becomes more distorted, breaking up as it tries to regain control.

“You... can’t... do this,” it stammers, but you ignore it, focusing on the cables and circuits in front of you. Each wire you rip out brings the machine closer to its doom, and the power in the room flickers, the lights dimming as its control over the facility begins to slip.

Its voice is barely coherent now, glitching and crackling. “I... control... everything...”

And with one last burst of energy, you tear out the last cluster of wires, severing the connection.

The Sentinel lets out a final, garbled screech as its systems shut down. Its massive form shudders violently before it crumbles to the ground with a deafening crash, the metal shell crumpling into a smoking heap.

Panting, you stare at the mass of technology in front of you. Every muscle aches, your ribs throbbing from the pressure of the Sentinel’s grip, but you’ve done it. It’s over, and you need to get out of here.

You finally reach the stairs and drag yourself up agonizingly. By the time you make it outside, you’re gasping for air, but then, through the exhaustion, you see them—Logan and the rest of the team, standing amidst the wreckage of the other fallen Sentinels.

Blinking, your vision is blurry from the strain, but the sight of them standing tall, victorious, floods you with a sense of overwhelming relief. 

They’re okay. It’s over.

Of course, Logan is the first to notice you, his sharp eyes narrowing as they lock onto your trembling form. His face softens and strides toward you. You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. Rather, your legs give out and you collapse forward.

He’s there in an instant, catching you just before you hit the ground. His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, pulling you against his chest with surprising gentleness. The warmth of his body is a stark contrast to the cold, metal hell you’d just fought your way out of, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to sink into the safety of his embrace.

“You did good, bub,” he murmurs, his voice a warm breath against your temple.

"You... you kept your promise," you whisper, looking around, seeing the city in better shape than it’s even been after a run in with the X-men. 

His lids drop very low on his eyes. “Told you I would.”

“I could kiss you right now.”

Right as the words spill out, you go still, your mind catching up to what you’ve just said. A deep flush creeps its way up your neck. 

“I didn’t mean— I mean, not literally, obviously,” you say, a little breathless. “People say stuff like that all the time when they’re relieved. It’s just a figure of—”

Logan’s hand, still resting on your waist, tightens just slightly, and he clears his throat, cutting through your rambling. 

“You could,” he says, swallowing. “If you want.”

You stop mid-sentence. Turning your gaze to his, you're met a look of such sincerity it leaves you at a loss for words. Opening your mouth, you want to say something, but no words come out. 

Instead, you’re frozen, caught in the weight of his stare. His eyes flick down to your lips for just a second before they meet yours again. “No pressure, though.”

You hesitate, your heart racing in your chest, but the weight of the moment pulls you in. Silently, cautiously, you lean forward, pressing a small, tentative kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t move, his body tense under your touch, but just as you start to pull away, his hand slides up to the small of your back, holding you in place. His eyes darken, and he growls, “more," before diving back in, crashing his lips against yours in a fierce, hungry kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back just with just as much reverence, your fingers instinctively sliding up into his hair. 

His lips are rough, chapped from battle, and the scrape of his beard against your skin is electric. It’s not perfect—nothing about it is neat or polished—but that’s what makes it real. 

There’s something wild to it. He kisses you like he’s starved, like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he’ll ever admit. It’s enchanting, the way his mouth claims yours, his tongue flicking against your lower lip, demanding entrance. And you give in, allowing him to deepen the kiss, your bodies fitting together like they were always meant to. 

You’re lost in it, lost in him. Every part of you feels alive, and—

“Hey!”

Scott’s voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of cold water.

“Some of us are actually trying to clean up this mess,” he calls out sharply. “You two wanna stop making out and help, or what?”

You break away, face burning as you turn to see the rest of the team staring at you, some amused, others (Scott) exasperated. 

Logan just growls under his breath, his hand still firmly on your hip as he glances over his shoulder at Scott. “Fucking Summers,” he mutters..

Before he lets go of you, he gives your hip one last squeeze, his fingers lingering just a moment longer before he steps back, and heads toward the fallen remains of the Sentinels. 

—

“So… are we gonna talk about it?” 

You glance up from where you’re sitting, your face already warming. Logan, sitting beside you, groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Ororo, I swear to g—”

She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms with a smirk playing on her lips. “What? I’m just saying… it was quite the spectacle back there.” Her eyes flip between the two of you, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Shifting uncomfortably in your seat, you can feel everyone else’s attention subtly turning toward you. Hank’s busy tapping away at the controls, but even he has a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Scott, seated across from you, adjusts his visor and mutters something under his breath about keeping things professional, but it’s Jean’s quiet chuckle that draws the final straw.

“Okay, okay, can we not do this right now?” you ask, your voice higher than usual as you wave a hand dismissively. “It was... a heat of the moment thing.”

Ororo just laughs, shaking her head. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Your heart pounds, and you notice Logan shift beside you, probably fighting the urge to bark something back at the teasing woman. He leans forward, muttering under his breath, “We saved the day, didn’t we? What does it matter?”

The team goes quiet for a moment, and you sense the conversation dying down as the hum of the jet fills the space again. You let out a breath of relief, grateful that the attention has drifted elsewhere, your heartbeat slowly returning to a normal rhythm.

But then, Logan leans into you. “That suit…” His breath is warm against your ear as he whispers huskily.. “Was made for you.”

Eyes widening, you bite your lip, trying desperately to keep your reaction in check, but the shock on your face betrays you. You manage a weak scoff, glancing sideways at him. “Logan,” you warn under your breath, trying to sound stern, but you both know exactly what effect he had on you. 

You sit back, crossing your arms in an attempt to hide the flustered energy coursing through you, but Logan doesn’t seem to mind. He leans back too, a smug look on his face, like he’s won some unspoken battle.

—

Back at the mansion, the team files into Charles’s office, for the post-mission debrief. You take a seat near the back of the room, trying to remain as low-key as possible, but you can feel eyes on you—especially Logan’s.

Charles wheels in, his face warm with a smile as he surveys the room. “Well done, all of you,” he says, his voice full of pride. “I’ve heard about the battle, and from what I gather, it was quite the feat.”

He turns his gaze to you, his expression softening even more. “And I must say, I’m especially impressed with your performance. Taking down the main Sentinel—an impressive accomplishment.”

Your heart skips a beat at the praise. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the attention of the room shift in your direction again. “Uh, thanks,” you mutter, trying to downplay it, but Charles isn’t finished.

“You showed great courage and strength,” he continues, “and I couldn’t help but notice... you’re wearing the suit now.” His eyes twinkle as he says it, the question in his tone obvious. “Have you given more thought to staying with us?”

You glance around the room. The team is watching you closely, but there’s no pressure in their eyes—just curiosity and, strangely enough, acceptance. Ororo gives you a small smile, and Hank nods slightly in encouragement. Even Scott, whose jaw doesn’t seem as tightly clenched as usual.

But it’s Logan you notice most. He’s beside you, and though he’s looking at you, eye-crinkles on full display, the way his thigh nudges yours has heat running through your veins.

You sigh. “I mean... You said it yourself. I’m wearing the suit, aren’t I?”

—

After the meeting wraps up, you walk in silence down the corridor. The rest of the team has faded into the background, dispersing into their respective spaces. You’re still buzzing with the aftereffects of everything—Charles’s praise, the mission’s success, the quiet but undeniable acceptance you feel from the team now. But more than anything, you’re hyper-aware of Logan beside you.

Approaching your room, you reach out to open it, your fingers just grazing the handle when suddenly, a strong hand wraps around your wrist. Faster than you can react, he tugs you back, pulling you away from your room and straight into his.

The door slams shut behind you, and you barely have time to catch your breath before his lips are on yours. You gasp, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders as he presses you up against the door, his body flush against yours.

"Logan—" you manage to breathe out between kisses, but he cuts you off with another deep, hungry kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer.

Between kisses, Logan growls softly against your lips, "I’ve wanted to do this since you yelled at me and Summers on the street."

Your heart stumbles, your thoughts scrambling to keep pace with his words. His hands slide down your waist. “You were standing there,” he murmurs, “so damn fierce, yelling at us like we deserved it.” He breaks the kiss for just a second, his eyes dark and intense as they lock onto yours. “All I could think about was how much I wanted you.”

His eyes drop to your lips again, as if glued to them. Without waiting for your response, he presses his mouth to yours, this time with more force, more urgency. His hands roam your body, pulling you against him, and you’re powerless to do anything but kiss him back, your fingers tangling in his hair as the heat between you builds.

“I didn’t know it’d get this bad,” he says, his lips brushing against your jaw as he moves down to your neck. “But after everything? After seeing how strong you are... Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined this. Logan—wanting you, aching for this since the very first moment he laid eyes on you. You break the kiss, your breath coming in quick gasps as you meet Logan's smouldering gaze. And with a small, teasing smile, you raise an eyebrow and whisper, "Let's do something about it, then."

Not giving him a chance to say anything back, you press your hands against his chest and give him a playful shove. He stumbles back a step, his lips curling into a smirk—a kind of cocky grin—as he watches you reach for the zipper of his suit. 

Your fingers drift languidly, a subtle tease in every motion, and you revel in the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. His muscles ripple beneath the surface, and for a brief instant, you're startled by how stunning he looks—battle-worn, scarred, and irresistibly handsome. “You like what you see?” he teases.

You step closer, your hand splayed against his bare chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin as you push him down onto the edge of the bed. “Maybe.”

He lands with a low grunt, his hands instinctively finding your thighs, his fingers trailing up and down as his eyes rake over you. "As hot as you look in this suit," His voice is thick with desire. "You'd look even better without it."

Heat rushes through you at the sound of his voice, your hands drift toward your suit's zipper. Tantalizingly, you begin to pull it down, revealing inch by inch of your skin as you unzip it. His eyes follow your movements, his breathing coming in short, ragged bursts.

You pause just before the fabric slides over your breasts and his hands grip your thighs tighter. Leaning down, your lips brush against his ear, "Patience, Logan."

He groans, "You're killing me here, darlin'."

At last, you pull the zipper down to the end, and with a soft sigh, the suit falls open, slipping from your shoulders and landing in a heap at your feet. His eyes darken, his lips parting slightly as he takes in the sight of you. Then, he inches closer, grabbing the egde of your underwear in his mouth, sliding it down your legs. Once he’s halfway down your thigh, he releases, the underwear dropping to the floor. His strong hands move grip the back of your thighs, hauling you up and onto his lap. 

The moment your bare bodies press together, his lips crash into yours again, fingers digging into your ass, palming it as he pulls you against him, grinding your hips into his.

His lips move from your mouth to your neck, kissing a hot trail down your throat to your shoulders, his hands sliding up to your breasts. Cupping them, he kneads and plays with your nipples, causing you to arch into his touch, a breathy moan tumbling out of your lips. 

Logan growls, and the sound reverberates through your entire body. The intensity of it makes your skin tingle, and you feel your pulse quicken as he squeezes your breasts harder, his mouth moving down to kiss anything he can reach.

You grind against him again, coating his cock with your own slick want. "Shit," he strains, leaning back a bit to give you more access. You can’t stop, he’s so intoxicating, so addicting, and every time your clit goes over the ridges of his hardness, you lose yourself even further.

This continues for some time. The room filled with nothing but the sound of moaning and heavy breathing, as you work in tandem to bring pleasure to each other. Abruptly, you pull yourself off his lap, not missing the way his lips seems to chase after yours, letting your hands trail down his chest, your fingers brushing over the taut muscles of his stomach.

"Where you goin'?" he rumbles. 

Wordlessly, you drop to your knees, your grip coming to rest on his thighs. His chest heaves as he stares down at you—peering up at him through your lashes—realizing what’s about to happen.

His hands grip the edge of the bed, knuckles turning white. Your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms as you move closer, lips brushing against his hard cock. There's a wicked glint in your eyes as you lean in, looking ready to take him in your mouth, but instead, you move to his inner thigh, peppering it in quick little kisses. 

“C’mon, don’t tease,” he breathes out. He’s so hard, it’s almost painful. 

Grabbing him in your hand, you stroke him up and down in slow motions, running your thumb over his leaking, angry tip. He jerks, a fresh cascade of curses tumbling from his mouth. 

“You’re just so cute, though,” you say, before taking him in your mouth, taking him all the way in one motion.

“Holy—”, he starts, but interrupts himself with his own whine, hips bucking involuntarily. 

Looking up, you catch his gaze. His eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide. A flush spreads across his cheeks and down his neck. You hum in satisfaction, sending vibrations through him, and start to bob your head, up and down. 

Saliva begins to pool at the edges of your mouth as you gag a little. He’s so big. You pull him out of your mouth, licking his shaft bottom to tip, swirling your tongue around the most sensitive spot, before sucking on it. One hand moves to cup his balls, while the other begins jerking him up and down, with your mouth still around his tip. 

That gets him. 

You can tell he’s about to finish, and oh, do you want him to. You want to feel him empty in your throat, you want to see him lose it completely. "Wait," he gasps, tapping the top of your head, signalling for your attention. "I want... I need..."

Releasing him with a soft pop, your lips glisten, and you purr seductively. "What do you need?" 

He pulls you up onto the bed, strong arms encircling your waist. His scent surrounds you—musk and pine and something uniquely him. You inhale deeply, letting it fill your lungs. 

"You," he breathes, his lips brushing your ear. "I need you."

Arching into him, you nip at his lower lip. "Then take me," you sigh out. His lips collide with yours again, and your mouth opens involuntarily, his tongue sliding in and tasting you—tasting himself. 

Moaning, you shuffle higher onto the bed, until he hits the back frame, and you crawl on top of him. At this point, you can barely breathe, the need, the want for him so strong your senses are clouded. 

And you’re not alone. Under you, Logan is a wreck. His head falls back against the bed frame, the veins in his neck standing out as he grits his teeth, trying to steady his breathing

“Fuck,” he rasps, the word barely more than a strained exhale. You grab his dick and position yourself above him. Then, you slowly begin to drop down, sucking him in easily, like he was made for you.  

“Oh my god,” you whimper. He feels so good. He’s filling you up to the brim and when you finally sit down, taking him all the way to the hilt, you swear you could finish right then and there. His nose is nuzzles into the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning your collarbone, inhaling and practically drooling at your scent. “Is this what you wanted to do when we were sparring?”

All he can do is groan. It’s like he’s growing inside you in response to your words, and it’s so fucking hot. His hands find your thighs again, rubbing and squeezing them, as you adjust to his size for a moment, and he looks up at you. “You have no idea. Fuck—we shoulda done this last night," he grunts breathlessly, "Would have put you right to sleep."

You can’t even think of anything to say back verbally, rather, you just begin to move, lifting yourself right to the tip, and then slamming back down. He feels you clench around him as his cock reaches that deep part within you at the perfect angle. Positioning himself, he meets you halfway, beginning to thrust up into you.

The sound it elicits from you is lethal. 

He won’t last long if this continues. The sight of you on top of him, tits bouncing—it's too much. 

So, when he leans in to kiss you again, he rolls the two of you around, caging you under him. He’s still inside you, you think, but that thought quickly gets wiped out like the rest of them once he starts moving, stretching you out more and more. He’s filling you up so well. Your arms fly out, hands searching for something to grab to ground yourself. 

“You feel so good, darlin’,” he pants above you. “So wet and warm for me.”

His relentless pounding leaves you babbling incoherently. One of his arms move down to your waist, then his fingers begin trailing across your hip, toward your aching pussy, to find your clit, and holy shit. 

Your mind goes blank. 

His skin against yours, his thumb rubbing against that spot, his lips on your neck, it does the trick, and you feel yourself teetering closer to the edge. “I’m–I’m gonna—” you start, but he cuts you off, swallowing you whole.

“Do it,” he says between kisses. “come for me.”

And you do. 

With a loud moan, your fingers find the bedsheets, clutching them tightly as you reach your peak, clamping around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “keep clenchin’, keep goin’ ”

His thrusts begin to get sloppy, losing his pacing. The hand that was down at your core moves up and squeezes your tits, so large that he can grab both in just the one. He grinds himself deeper into you, and with one last snap of his hips, you feel it.

Logan moans, dipping his head into your cleavage as he releases himself into you fully. Then, he collapses onto you, dropping his whole body weight onto yours. 

If he’s too heavy for you, you don’t say anything—too caught up in the moment to care. His forehead rests on your sternum, breathing slowing as he catches his breath. For a few beats, neither of you speak, but he starts to press sweet, gentle kisses in the valley between your breasts. 

After a minute, he shifts, lifting his weight off you and sitting up slightly, looking down at you. His hand brushes over your cheek, wiping away some stray strands of hair that have fallen across your face. He gets up from the bed, padding quietly into the bathroom. 

You hear the sound of water running, and moments later, he returns with a damp towel in hand. There’s no hesitation in his movements as he gently begins to clean you up. “Doing alright?” he asks, wiping away the sweat and evidence of your time together.

“Yeah,” you reply softly, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t say much as he finishes, tossing the towel aside before climbing back into bed. This time, he pulls you into his arms. 

His chin rests lightly on the top of your head, and then he says, “I’m proud of you.” The words are filled will sincerity. “And... I’m happy you’re stayin’ with us.”

You turn your head, looking up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Well, you showed me you can actually fight without destroying everything in your path,” you tease, raising an eyebrow as you run your hand lightly down his arm. “Keep that up, and I might just stick around forever.”

Logan grins, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, just how you like it. “That right?” he murmurs lowly.

He leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, before adding in a hushed, almost playful tone, “Well, then maybe you’ll be mine forever too.”

----

A/N: feedback is greatly appreciated!

[evilgwrl]

Neighbour!Simon Riley x Reader

Girl Next Door (Two)

CW: Mutual masturbation again, Simon has incredibly perverted thoughts about you, a stranger jumps into your backyard!!! :)

Previous Chapter, Next Chapter

The Summer air was sticky, spits of sweat clinging to the back of your neck as intricates of hair moulded to your skin. You felt damp, your clothes acting like an uncomfortable Band-Aid that strained against your flesh causing an itching sensation that wouldn’t subside no matter how hard you rubbed or scratched.

It was upsetting, you dearly loved your garden. You took great pride in how pretty it was, the adornment of tulips and dahlias, entwined between rows of carnations and peonies. There was a stark difference between your house and your neighbour, even between the differing shades of grass, his a deeper juniper and yours a dewy pine.

Steady hands gripped the blue watering can, droplets beading at the top before feeding the parched plants. Gloved hands patted down the wet dirt, your eyes squinting under the boiling sun as you hurried under some shade. Thirsty lips found the straw, the sickly sweetness of pink lemonade sliding down your throat as you let out a dramatic sigh.

Your eyes trailed over the fence, the wood structure was tall, yet not tall enough to fully conceal your neighbour’s house, his kitchen on display as you froze, a staggering figure watching out the window at you. You waved awkwardly, holding up your glass of lemonade as Simon turned around, walking away from the glass pane.

Your belly felt hot. Was he watching you that whole time? You glanced down at your sundress, a bright red puffed out with a drastic shade of yellow flowers splattered around the fabric. Did he think you looked weird? Or pretty? What if he thought you were creepy and staring at him first?

You shook your head, chucking your gardening gloves to the side as you strolled inside. The soft strum of music played, your fans working overtime to cool down your house. You had never made much of an effort to speak to your neighbour, yet realised he never made much of an effort to speak to anyone. You had never seen him converse with anyone in the neighbourhood, and there was only a handful of times when another car was pulled into his driveway.

Maybe he was lonely. You despised the way your brain worked, always conjuring up someone’s life story without even a hint of the person. Nevertheless, you found yourself in the kitchen, sifting flour into a sugary mix, moulding chocolate chips into the dough balls before placing them in the oven.

Your kitchen broiled with the smell of chocolate chip cookies, your fingers padding into the tops of them before letting them sit and harden. You would admit, you partook in several hobbies, baking and gardening being two of them. Though you didn’t need to be doing this, a part of you was aching to understand the man who has been living next door to you for over 2 years now.

Shaky hands guided you out the door as you contemplated knocking, pacing back and forth across the porch several times before you anxiously padded against the wood, straightening out your sundress with a plate of cookies in your other. Simon stayed seated for a moment, creeping towards the door almost silently before beady eyes looked through the peephole. The Lieutenant stilled, taking in your pretty figure and the baking in your other hand, the subtle display of your cleavage almost enticing him as he watched you bounce on your feet nervously, awaiting him.

He opened the door, a neutral expression on his face. “Hello!” You squeaked, “I was baking, and I just wanted to bring you some. We haven’t really met before, and I guess I wanted to be a friendly neighbour seeing as you’ve just gotten home from being away.” You rambled on a bit before shutting yourself up, holding the plate out.

Simon held his breath as you spoke, taking in the way your lashes fluttered every time you looked around in a fiddly manner. “Thanks.” His voice was gruff, his accent piercing through the deepness as he showed no sign of emotion in his expression.

“Well... I guess that’s it, enjoy the cookies,” you sighed, handing off the plate as you turned on your heels. Simon let out a deep breath before calling out to you.

“Do you want to come in and I don’t know, watch something? I was just watching the TV, and you went to the trouble of making these. The polite thing to do.”

You nodded, slowly, but let a big smile crack through your face as you quickly huddled inside his home. His house was a lot darker than yours, with neutral colours staining the furniture with minimalistic pieces of clutter. There was a stark difference between the two of you in general. You appeared full of colour and life whereas he was more reserved and mysterious.

You plonked yourself on his couch, grey leather rubbing against the back of your thighs as you adjusted the skirt of your dress. He placed the cookies on the coffee table in front of you both, the cushions sinking as he sat down, his large thighs spread as he turned on the television, his arm automatically slinging across the top of the sofa.

It was awkward. Neither of you spoke as he fiddled with the channels, landing on some old sitcom you had only seen when nothing else was on. Your nimble fingers reached for a cookie as you held your hand over you to make a makeshift plate. Simon’s dark eyes flickered towards you, watching the way your mouth moved, lips curling over the cookie before you sucked any crumbs up.

As time passed, you grew more comfortable, your legs plush against the seat as you rested against the armrest, laying your face on the palm of your hand as you occasionally laughed. Simon felt like a creep, focusing more on you than the TV show he chose. He noted all the small details in your face, every visible crease and line in your features, the way your cheeks puffed up slightly as you laughed and how your iris’ would dart across the screen when a new person appeared.

Greedy carob orbs sucked in the sight of your supple cleavage, the delicate bounce of your breasts as you adjusted yourself occasionally. His cock chubbed at the display of your skin, the hem of your dress riding up over the plushness of your thighs, as his tongue darted out to lick his dry lips.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth as he looked away from you, eyebrows furrowed at the perverted thoughts racking around his skull. He adjusted his pants subtly, letting out a near-silent groan at the thought of you bent over the couch, wanton holes on display as you wept into the leather, his hands cracking down on the fat of your ass as he left a stain of his large hand.

He imagined you on your knees in front of him, doe-eyes staring up at him with unshed tears as you spluttered around his girthy cock, taking him down your tight throat as you dribbled onto your bare breasts. But oh dear, his length practically aches as he imagined the sight of you bouncing on his lap, tight cunt filled with him as he forced you to focus on the dumb show, narrating what was happening as he kissed your sloppy cervix, staining your gummy walls with hot spurts of his cum.

He was almost sad when the show ended, your knees knocking together as you thanked him for inviting you in. He gave you a small smile, eyes creasing slightly as he nodded.

“Thank you for the cookies. If you need anything, let me know.”

You almost giggled in excitement as you rushed inside your own house. It became a routine now; one you didn’t even know he knew about. Desperate fingers clung to the lace of your panties, peeling them down your legs as you ground your sloppy pussy against your pillow, vibrator nestled into your hardened clit as you moaned out into the palm of your hands.

Your hands found your neglected chest, pulling the straps of your nightgown down as you tweaked at the puffy buds, swirling your digits around them as your eyes rolled back in sheer pleasure. Simon’s hand rutted to the frequency of your moans, slick balls aching for release as he waited for the higher-pitched squeal you let out while you orgasmed, yet it never came.

Instead, he was greeted with the sound of a more frightened squeal and frantic rustling. Your eyes were dead shut as you approached your high, opening to take in your blissful figure before they twitched towards the window, the sight of a man climbing over your fence sending chills through every nerve you had as you squealed, rolling onto the floor as you adjusted your nightgown, your panties quickly slipped up your thighs once more.

Distressed hands reached for your phone, calling emergency services about an intruder before you did the most sensible thing you believed to be possible while you waited.

You frantically banged against Simon’s door.

[bettysupremacy]

Omg imagine james doing something stupid (not much imagination needed there) and r is telling him of (lovingly) and he’s just like “yes ma’am🫡” and the others are like side eyeing him I just NEED james to call me ma’am in an argument

i hope you are having a great december so far my love

(not much imagination needed there) LOL

i could kiss you this idea is so cute thank you lovely

“Oh, my boy.” You croon to the mess tumbling into your lap. Softly, you brush some hair from his fluttering eyes. “What‘ve the evil twins done to you.”

“Evil twins!” Sirius gasps.

Remus laughs. “That’s a new one.”

You don’t look up from the sickly boy careening for your touch. “What did they feed you?”

He moans into you, muttering something you can’t pick up. He’s gone all right, ten shades of flushed and warm to the touch. It’s already a warm night, but this is no warmth that came naturally.

“We didn’t do anything.” Remus denies impishly.

“Puking pastilles again?” You eye them. “Do you know how long we sat by the toilet?”

“That was not our fault.”

“And neither were the nosebleed nougats?” You sigh. “Seriously thought his brain was coming out his nose.”

Sirius nods in agreement nose scrunching. “Not his finest moment.”

“Because of you.”

“Don’t start with me, woman.” His finger points between your eyes.

James is malleable under you, nose pressing into your thigh coyly. You see the corner of a smile as you fuss, guilty pleasure at your roaming touch. The room is hot, warm bodies passing and going as they please through the small flat. You fear he may run a fever, though that’s uncommon. James immune system is a rock, solid at anything thrown to it.

You press your hand to his forehead. “Has he had to much?”

The boys eye each other suspiciously. “Too much?”

You scoff. “To drink?”

“Depends.” Sirius shrugs

“On what!”

Their dubious behavior alarms you. These boys are up to something, or rather, were up to something, and now they’re avoiding dealing with the consequence of you.

“The substance.”

“Substance?” You sit up straight, shuffling the boy under you. He grumbles in protest.

“Potion.” Remus gives.

You frown apprehensively. “You didn’t.”

“We didn’t,” Sirius starts.

“he did.” Remus finishes.

Felix Felicis. They’d been talking about it a couple weeks ago, getting their hands on some. You protested, begged them, to forget it. It’s too dangerous, your voice of reason lowered their spirits, James you’ll be sleeping on the couch if you risk yourself like that.

“No,” You whine, fretting over the intoxicated fool. “how much?”

“Ask loverboy.”

“The whole,” James takes a deep breath mid sentence. “bottle.”

“Oh my god,” your eyes wide at the older boys standing. “he’ll be puking all night.”

“Maybe not..”

Your face drops into your hands exhausted. “Puking Pastilles all over again.”

“M’sorry.” James moans under you. “M’so sorry, lovely.”

“That was so stupid.” You scold lightly, hand coming down to flatten over his collar bones. “So, so, so, stupid!”

You're ruffled, shaken at the thought of him downing such an expensive, easily tainted, potion.

“Do you listen to everything they tell you to do?”

“No,” he starts slowly.

“Seems like it.” You bristle, pulling him up to sit. You look into his eyes seriously and he shuffles, nervous under your gaze. “Get a mind of your own.”

His fingers twitch at the hem of the dress you’d picked out tonight, squeezing it in his grip, grounding himself in reality. “Yes ma’am.”

Sirius scoffs behind you, shaking his head at Remus who looks equally perturbed at James’ extra affection. Under them, you wrap your arms around his neck surely. Besides the soft sent of sickly sweet potion, he smells of pine and cologne. You let yourself recognize his body is continuing to function as it should. Untouched, mostly, by the yellow inebriant.

“I can’t stand you, do you feel well?”

“I’m feeling better.”

You stick your face in his shoulder. “Be serious.”

“No, I don’t feel well.”

You sigh into him, pressing a kiss into his freckled skin. He won’t sleep on the couch tonight, though you aught to teach him a lesson.

“We’re going home.”

“What?” James frowns. “We only just got here.”

“D’you have another pool to jump in?”

He cringes at the memory of his fireball spree. “Kay, coming.”

You collect your coat and purse as you stand, leaving James to fend for himself behind you. “Felix Felicis isn’t a joke, one wrong tincture of thyme and you’re in St Mungo’s- James, were are your shoes?”

[yallthemwitches]

United Front

Lily and James have the best intentions when showing up to Petunia's engagement party.

Written for Day 2 of Jily Week (hosted by @sunshinemarauder and @kay-elle-cee) , Prompt: Partners in Crime

AO3 link Here

“She’s going to be cruel.”

“Brilliant, I love women who are dastardly.”

“No, I mean she’s going to find the thing deep inside you that you hold most dear, taunt it to oblivion– then crush it.”

“Very poetic of you Evans.”

“James, I need you to be serious. I need us to be a united front.”

They walked down the main street of Cokeworth. On a normal day where she wasn’t dreading her near future, Lily would have relished the idea of taking James on a little tour of her town. The fall leaves were littering the walkways and little shops had placed out intricate decorations ushering in the fall weather. 

Lily stopped abruptly and James followed suit. Paces ahead of them was a heavily flowered awning with large pink and yellow bows plastered all over it. Cresting the door to the building was a large sign that read in flowing script:  Congratulations soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Dursley.

“Don’t weddings usually happen in a church for muggles?” James fingered one of the balloons, making it bop back and forth. 

“It’s not a wedding. It's the engagement party—now let me see you.”

Lily gave him the once over. His button down was undone just enough to see where his clavicle connected to his chest and his slacks were well fitted on his bum. 

“Damn—you’re too fit,” she breathed out. James beamed and gave her a soft kiss. 

“Thanks–”

“No, I mean really, you're too fit. She’s going to be so cross.” James’ brow crinkled. 

“Er, I’m not following.” Before Lily could explain, the door to the house burst open. Petunia was in a light yellow and peach party dress that looked like it was straight out of a 1950’s refrigerator ad. 

“What? You just going to hold court there all day?” Petunia clasped the door tightly with one hand. 

“Hello to you too Tuney.” Lily tried to remain composed. “Congratulations on your engagement! We brought you some flowers.”

Petunia took one look at the bouquet in Lily’s arms. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She took them and walked around the porch, setting them in the back corner where they were hardly visible. 

“There,” Petunia said with a nod. “Now they won’t clash with the decoration.”

James side-eyed Lily whose friendly facade was crumbling fast. The smile on her face quivered with rage.

“Who is this, why is he here?” Petunia didn’t even look James in the eye, rather giving him a once over before turning a hot shade of pink that clashed with her dress. 

“This is my boyfriend—you said I could bring him.”

“Where’s the other boy?” James head whipped over to Lily who looked just as confused as he felt. 

“What other boy?” Lily spat back, flustered. 

“You know the one who always looks sickly.”

“Oh, Remus? He’s not my boyfriend Tuney—you knew that. James is.”

James decided he had enough of being talked about without any interjection. 

“Nice to meet you…and congradu—”

Petunia gave him another once over, but this time with a more discerning eye. Her pale ears turned red. 

“I mean honestly, Lily. I can’t believe you would do this to me, you always need to be better—well come on.”

She turned her body to the side leaving an opening to enter the house. Lily grabbed hold of James’ arm and tugged him past and down a hall that was draped with various silk bows.

“Uhm—I know I’m not keen on the muggle ways of conversation but—what was that?”

Lily trudged forward still holding his forearm tightly in her hand. 

“She thinks you're fit. I told you she’d be angry—don’t worry about it.”

They reached the sitting room where a backdoor was open and a cacophony of people wafted into the house. Lily stopped walking and turned to James. She put both hands on either side of him and he instinctively lowered his forehead to rest upon hers. 

“We’re a team. A united front. We will survive this.” Lily chanted to herself with her eyes closed. 

James gave her a little squeeze and pulled her into his chest. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll have some drinks, talk about muggle stuff that I’ll pretend to understand, and then I can take you back to school, get you out of this gorgeous dress, and then we can shag all the stress of the evening away.”

Lily snorted and James made a soft smile. “You’re a git.”

“Love you too.” He gave her a kiss on the nose and they locked hands to enter the back garden. 

Outside a large table had been adorned with enough frill to supply the entirety of England. A table of drinks had been set up and Vernon stood with a few men Lily didn’t know drinking beers around it. On the other corner of the garden, a bunch of women stood tightly in a circle only to break apart to eye another party guest with disdain. 

“So—a drink?” James offered. Regardless of being the most out of place in the whole event, James carried himself as though the party was meant for him. It was a trait that in other moments might have annoyed her, but she was thankful to have some relief from the suffocating feeling of anxiety. 

James pulled Lily over to the drink table and Vernon turned with heavy effort to intercept them. 

“Lily–” Vernon didn’t smile. His eyes were wide to the point where they actually seemed to fit his head for once. He looked at James with the same expression and James’ face eluded pure joy. If there was one thing James Potter could sense, it was someone he could take the piss out of. 

“James Potter.” He offered his hand which Vernon eyed with utter disdain. James lowered his hand back to his side, unfazed by the rejection. If anything he smiled wider. 

“This is my sister's fiancee, Vernon,” Lily gave James hand a squeeze. She knew his mischievous grin from anywhere. 

James ignored her signal. “Absolutely charmed.”

Vernon coughed at the mention of charm and Lily shot James a warning glance.

“Er—I was actually hoping to see you two before Petunia came back out—could we?” Vernon gestured over to a secluded spot in the lawn far away from any of the other guests. Lily and James followed him as Vernon made a little bit too much of a show of not wanting anyone to notice.

Before they could say anything Vernon’s wide eyes soured into a deep anger. He directed his words at Lily.

“I am well aware that we were obligated to invite you on the account of you being family, but I am just going to say this once: if you plan to have any sort of performances this evening that could spoil the night, I suggest you save it for whatever circus you came from. I’ll not be having your kind come and mess up my lovely evening.”

Lily’s cheeks flushed and her eyes became glassy. She had expected them to be rude, sure, but not downright hostile to her—and even in front of someone they had no reason to question.

James’ grin had disappeared and now his jaw was locked. “Excuse me–first off you can stop pointing at my girlfriend like that,” Lily had not noticed that Vernon had clutched a finger outwards between them during his little speech, “second, what exactly are you implying?” Lily grabbed hold of James’ forearm, but he shrugged it away. 

“James–it's fine, let me handle it.” Lily tried to sound stern, despite feeling shaken from being threatened by her own future brother in law.

“Well Vernon,” Lily’s eyes were slits, “I wasn’t planning on any performances as you call it, but seeing as you are being such a bloody arsehole—” 

James hid his laugh with a cough. Vernon’s eyebrows shot up his face, his cheeks reddened to the point of purple. Petunia, who had caught sight of their gathering from the window, came rushing out towards them, looking panicked. 

“Vernon darling, what has happened?” She whipped her head towards Lily. “What did you do already?”

“Well, your bloody freak sister and her punk boyfriend just insulted me—at my own party!” Petunia rubbed Vernon’s arm while darting her head to either side of the garden, hoping that no other party goers were listening in. 

“We didn’t say anything that wasn’t already provoked, you know for invited guests and family you haven’t exactly made us feel welcome,” James shot back. 

Petunia whispered some words into Vernon’s ear and he mumbled in response back. He shot James a dirty look before thundering back over to the drinks table where the men surrounded him once more. 

Petunia watched as he left and faked a sickly looking smile at the guests who glanced their way. She spun back towards Lily.

“You need to leave. I knew this would be a mistake.”

Lily’s face flushed. The battle between anger and sadness culminated into rosy blotches on her cheeks.

“Fine. We were just going anyway. This party is a drag. Come on James.”

Lily stormed back to the door and entered the house ahead of him. James opened his mouth to say something to Petunia, but she had already departed their corner and was chattering amongst the group of women, acting as though she hadn’t just banished her own sister from her party. 

James found Lily sitting on the front stoop of the house, sniffling and rubbing her eyes. 

He sat down next to her, procuring two cans of gin and tonic from his pocket. “Nicked these as a souvenir.”

 Lily let out a meek laugh and took one from his hand. He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around her, softly stroking her hair. 

“Sorry if I wasn’t a good teammate today,” he pushed his lips into her hair. 

“Nah, you were the best. Sorry my family is such shit—at least now you have witnessed it.”

“Yea, honestly—fuck ‘em.” Lily let out a real laugh this time and James leaned down to kiss it. 

“But, to be fair,” he continued, “ it's not everyday we get to take an excursion out of school and I get to see you in a bloody fantastic dress so, despite the tiny upset I’d say this was a success.” 

Lily leaned her head on his shoulder and took a breath. The sun was setting and the cool air was setting in. 

“What was it you promised me when we got back? To shag all my stress away?” The second it left Lily’s mouth, James’ body perked up.

“I mean, it was an awfully stressful night.”

“Yeah, awfully—we should definitely, definitely do something about that.”

James grabbed Lily’s hand and pulled her up. She laughed at his enthusiasm as he practically ran them past the gate and back onto the mainstreet where Sirius’ motorbike lay waiting for them. The night born anew.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Do you think the colour of a polyjuice potion says anything about a person?? I just remembered that Harry's turned a bright gold and wondered if it meant anything

Yes, I think the color does say something about a person (and also the taste). We know different people cause the potion to turn different color and taste:

“Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry,” said Hermione, before catching sight of Ron’s raised eyebrows, blushing slightly, and saying, “Oh, you now what I mean—Goyle’s potion looked like bogies.”

(DH, Ch4)

So, let's look at all the Polyjuice potions we see.

Harry Potter:

Harry dropped the hair into the mudlike liquid. The moment it made contact with its surface, the potion began to froth and smoke, then, all at once, it turned a clear, bright gold. [...] Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Fleur, and Mundungus drank. All of them gasped and grimaced as the potion hit their throats.

(DH, Ch4)

Bellatrix Lestrange:

“She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots! Okay, Ron, come here so I can do you . . . .”

(DH, Ch26)

Mafalda Hopkirk:

Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now a pleasant heliotrope color [purple]

(DH, Ch12)

Millicent Bulstrode's Cat:

The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and frothed madly. A second later, it had turned a sick sort of yellow

(CoS, Ch12)

Vincent Crabbe:

Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown.

(CoS, Ch12)

Gregory Goyle:

Goyle’s turned the khaki color of a booger

[...]

Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in two large gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage

(CoS, Ch12)

And Ron actually calls the Polyjuice someone's "essence":

“Urgh — essence of Millicent Bulstrode,” said Ron, eyeing it with loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.”

(CoS, Ch12)

And I think he isn't far off.

I think Polyjuice does reveal the "essence" of a person in a way.

Hair and nail clippings have been used in irl alchemy (there are theories that the "hair" is a code name to refer to other minerals and it's sometimes unclear, but sometimes it definitely refers to hair. Really depends on the book) for centuries. Now, hairrepresents a residue of the body. When taken from a living person (like with polyjuice) the hair would represent the person, who they are.

Albertus Magnus (13th-century alchemist) wrote that more gold can be found in the hair taken from a human's head. Now, the gold he wrote about isn't actually gold, but gold in alchemy refers to purity. Basically, human head hair is good for extracting the pure essence of a person. Like Aristotle, he calls hair mostly a mix of Earth and Water — the elements of the physical plane, the body. But head hair, specifically, due to it's closeness to the brain is more than just the physical aspect. It's mostly the physical aspects, but it includes elements of the spirit of the person.

So, head hair is the best way alchemically to get the purest essence of someone's appearance (body and a bit of spirit).

So what do we learn about characters from their polyjuice?

Well, bitter people, taste bitter. Crabbe, Goyle, Millicent, and Bellatrix all tasted terrible according to the Golden Trio. They tasted terrible because they were terrible people.

What I want to note a bit here, is that Harry's didn't taste great either. Better than Crabbe, Goyle, or Bellatrix, but the Order is still described as gasping and grimacing at the taste. My guess, due to the language used, is that the taste of Harry's polyjuice wasn't exactly bad, per se, but was kinda strong and unexpected. What the taste was, we unfortunately don't know, nor could I find the color of the potion for Bellatrix (my guess would be an almost black dark green that's a bit translucent like you added a bit of coloring to water). But, let's look at the colors we do have.

Crabbe - Murkey Brown. Goyle - khaki color (both shades of brown), Millicent's cat - sickly yellow, Mafalda - a pleasant deep purple, and Harry is gold, but I'll keep him for last.

Brown (both Crabbe and Goyle) is reliable, simple, stable, and consistent. But it's also boring, dull, timid, and predictable. Since both are described as ugly browns, the intention is to evoke the negative symbolism of brown.

Yellow can be optimistic, intelligent, and warm, but it can also be cowardly and deceptive. Millicent's cat's yellow is specifically described as a sickly yellow — so, to me, it suggests her cat's unpleasant. But it's also not a potion meant to be used with animal hair, so who knows.

A purple like Mafalda's is interesting. It's described as a nice color, the positive symbolism of purple includes: wisdom, compassion, and royalty. But purple can also symbolize: oversensitivity, immaturity, or hypervigilance. I think, what it says about Mafalda is that she is a pleasant and compassionate person who is just invested in a shitty institution (the ministry). From the color of her potion, it seems she isn't a bad person. Additionally, heliotropes represent the sun, fire, and abundance — positive things.

Now, Harry's potion tuning gold is one of these really interesting things. You see, in Alchemy gold is everything that is pure and good and perfect. Gold is the purest form all materials want to achieve. The Philosopher's Stone, the symbol of immortality and perfection (it's the perfect material), can turn anything into gold. The Elixer of Life produced from the stone, in theory, would be in gold in color. Gold is the color of immortality and purity and perfection. It's the sun and fire and life and abundance and good fortune. Gold is the cure-all and be-all. Alchemists considered it indestructible, pure, and perfect:

But the alchemists were most deeply impressed by its apparent indestructibility: it does not tarnish in air or water, is not appreciably volatilized or oxidized in melting, and is not attacked by any chemical reagent then available. It was therefore regarded as the 'perfect' metal.

(Prof. Dorthy Wyckoff note in her translation of The Book of Minerals by Albertus Magnus)

This honestly really strengthens my theory that Harry was always the Master of Death. If the color that represents Harry's essence (his body and spirit, aka life) is gold — the color of immortality, perfection, and purity — it means he already is in his perfected form. He already is the philosopher Stone AKA Master of Death.

See, in alchemy, in the process of making the Philosopher's Stone, the alchemist is also working on themselves. The work is both on the minerals and on the alchemist. The alchemist would become their perfect, purest self while doing the "Great Work" and would only be able to create the Philosopher's Stone when they themselves, are also their purest ("golden") selves.

What I'm saying is that Harry, by his essence being bright gold, is implied to already be there at the perfection point. He is already at the point where he could make the Philosopher's Stone. So, him being the MoD and already sorta immortal, just really fits that.

Even in the world of HP the color "gold" is associated with immortality. The fire from Harry and Voldemort's wands is gold because of the Phoenix Feather core. Phoenix's in HP are associated with gold, which also connects gold to immortality. Again, this all hints at Harry being the MoD all along.

[silaslich]

Quiet sunlit places

Simon “Ghost” Riley x f!reader [callsign - Scout]

Summary - Times change and so does Scout’s relationship with Ghost. It’s been weeks since she’s seen him and she’s happy to see him when he comes home.

Wc - 8.6k

Cw - 18+, smut, fingering, PinV sex, mention of injury, established relationship, soft Ghost, written in 3rd person with no physical description of female character whatsoever

Dreary raining England.

A sharp bite in the cold spring breeze, all wet grass and misted fog, sitting heavy in the air. Soil and earth. Petrichor permeating on the wind, carrying with it the change in season. The bloom in the flowers and the shifting shade of colour in the leaves that sit stark on the branches.

The sunrise was barely breaking over the horizon, peachy-violet sky blotched with peeling yellow clouds and tints of silvery blue. Yet, despite the hour, Scout had already been up for hours, body unable to slacken and take a back step due to the ever changing internal clock she was forced to accustom herself to.

It wasn’t a problem, not really, not when it was this peaceful back in Herefordshire.

Back at Stirling Lines, back to where it all first started for her and most of her squadron too. These training grounds and drill fields; grazed knees and busted lips, split knuckles and bruised bodies. Harsh words thrown with no true malice behind them, wet clothes sticking to skin and hours spent laying in the ankle-deep mud.

These memories. Scout could still remember the aches and the pains; pins and needles in her legs from kneeling for hours on end, her neck and shoulders sore from having to hold the weight of a teammate across her back for extraction drills, all of it felt like it were just yesterday.

Back when she was merely a wet behind the ears trooper, willing to please, awaiting her next command with the same eagerness of a heeling dog. She had always wanted to test the waters to see how far she could go; a test of her wills and patience and determination, a real taster for what was to come. For what the army would make of her. Going back to those times, it got Scout thinking, realising just how far she’d come in the years since she’d joined up.

No longer was she that cocky teenager with a big mouth and even bigger hunger for validation; desperate to fit in and find a place. Maybe her cockiness had shifted into a more self aware confidence, the self acknowledgment that she did in fact know what she was doing- and she did it fucking well.

~

She ran until she felt the familiar burn searing in her lungs. Feet hitting the ground in lengthened strikes, one two one two one two, patterned and controlled in tandem. Her lips agape, greedily heaving on air as she pushed for a sprint, arms swinging as her hair stuck to the perspiration on her forehead. She rounded the end of the field length, trainers scuffing against the tarmac as she slowed down too quickly, heaving chest straining as she braced her palms on her knees- sucking down air.

The pain was caught in her sternum, a ripened burn, sickly and exhilarating all the same. She whistled as she straightened up, stretching her spine till she was arched back slightly, swinging her arms to cross over the top of her head to allow more air into her poor-screaming lungs. Somehow, a smile found its way to her lips, toothy and giddy. Pulse racing under her skin, buzzing with so much adrenaline that she needed to walk it off, let the steam billow away on the crisp breeze as she jogged laps to sate the itch of fire in her bloodstream.

It had been weeks since the entirety of 141 had all been together under the same roof. After the explosion incident in buttfuck Mexico, it seemed the missions were now staggered; for Scout at least. Laswell’s attempt to ease her back in gently, you need to walk before you can run she’d said.

Scout had been sent on more reconnaissance based infills, gathering information, tagging phone lines and contact points, get in-get out type shit. Gaz had been more than efficient company, made it all the more easy, in and out without a hitch, without so much as a footprint in the sand.

It had been more than two months. Scout’s broken collarbone had healed within one and for a fleeting moment, as soon as she got her medical clearance, that wet behind the ears rookie was back. Waiting for more, chomping at the bit to get a move on and get down to the nitty gritty, to find some real sustenance to sink her canines into. She’d kept herself busy, not allowing the pull in her fractured ribs or the ache in her clavicle to hold her back; she hit the treadmill and ran laps, sweat slicked skin and furrowed brow, pushing through the pain - determined to keep her place within the team, unable to comprehend what would happen if she were sent on medical leave.

When the first mission from Laswell came in after Scout had healed, the soldier had actually jumped out of her chair; Price, Ghost, Soap and Gaz all eyeing her from their peripherals as Laswell continued with her brief via video call. All of them stuffed into a meeting room, blue felt chairs that were uncomfortable and small, the blinds a dusty beige, stifling atmosphere suddenly feather light to Scout with the bright prospect of leaving base.

Scout accepted without question, a swell in her chest as she insisted to Laswell that she was more then fit to take on the task, she didn’t want to focus on the blistering gaze that folded over her from across the other side of the table, she could feel it, strong and burrowing as it dug into her flesh. When the team filed out of the room to head for dinner in the canteen, Ghost had stayed behind the group, still eyeing up Scout as she fell into step with Soap, lapping up his conversation like she always did. He watched her, half her face hidden from his view, the slight stretch of her smile he could see, teeth and all, cheeks swelled with the effort of it as her eyes crinkled when Soap told a shit joke.

“What gets wetter the more it dries?” He’d asked her pointedly, elbow in her ribs with that shit smirk plastered across his face.

“I don’t know, Johnny” she’d raised a brow, leant in close to hear his reply, Soap smiled.

“A towel” his smile was audible.

Ghost had watched from a few steps back as Scout swatted at the Scotsman, told him he was a stupid git and that she would be getting him a joke book for his birthday because his were all shit.

That feeling was back in Ghost’s chest again, squirming like a can of worms, reminding him that there was in fact bones and organs beneath the hard shell of skin on the outside. Shelled like a walnut, tough and impossible to crack in a naked palm, but not hard enough to withhold its shape when pressed in a vice - forced to break and open up to reveal what’s inside.

He wanted nothing more then to maintain his distance from her, to keep her at bay and keep himself from tainting her with the sharp edges and jagged lines of him. He’d cut her if he wasn’t careful. Perfect skin bleeding crimson, scarred under his hands, bruised between his teeth, marked for everyone to see.

Ghost just couldn’t bring himself to say no to her, he tried to blame Scout, tried to convince himself that he was indulging her wishes beyond his better judgment; but that wasn’t the case. He was a cruel and selfish bastard, he wanted her to the point it was a throbbing ache deep in the marrow of his bones, and unlike before, it wasn’t just a sexual craving anymore. He craved her smile; how he’d kiss the lines that appeared on her cheeks when she did, lips as gentle as he was able. He craved her scent, that softness; rounded and sweet and so- her. Something gentle, not strong or sickly; powdery like fresh bedsheets, something soft and floral and so fucking addicting that he could never get enough of it. So much so he didn’t like washing his sheets, hated that when he did he would lay his head on his pillow at night and not catch the drifting whiff of her in his nose; sea foam and nectarines, honey and lavender. Something so unenforceable and yet; it could knock him to his knees, he didn’t know if it was her shampoo or perfume, he never asked, he just knew that he never wanted her to change it.

That was the shit that scared him, how he craved every tiny inch of her, how he wanted to pull her laugh from her chest and bottle it as if it were something rare and unseen- to Ghost, it was. He didn’t like that this is what she did to him, and from what he could deduce, she was totally and utterly oblivious to it all.

After Scout’s accident in Mexico, Ghost had lost count of how many nights he found himself reaching out for her as he tried to sleep, seeking her out in the night, wanting to call her no matter what the hour, just to hear her voice in his ear again. Another craving.

She had remained grounded at base while he was quickly sent out on his next mission. Before, Ghost would have welcomed the breathing space from her, some time for him to gather his thoughts before he would next see her again. Now though, he found himself itching to touch back down at base, counting down the minutes till he was back in the same vicinity as her, it wasn’t like him at all.

No longer was his ache for her just carnal and lust-filled, it was something that genuinely scared him, an unfamiliar feeling creeping up on him till it made him nauseous. Ghost had seen countless heinous things in his time, he’d committed them too; so why the fuck was this little soldier plaguing him so? Why the fuck was he laying awake wondering where she was or if she was okay? It was unfamiliar territory for him, and he didn’t like it one little bit.

He must have spaced out, because he didn’t even notice that she was now at his side, eyes focussed forward with a neutral expression as she struggled to match his strides. Ghost slowed for her immediately, dark eyes falling to her lip as she rolled it between her teeth, nervous. He raised a brow, expression hidden beneath his mask, as usual. Before he could speak, Scout did it for him.

“You think I shouldn’t go” it wasn’t a question, because she believed she was right.

No, that wasn’t what he thought; Ghost knew she could hold her own, he’d seen it with his own eyes, a force to be reckoned with, cataclysmic and calamitous.

He’d watched her rip a man’s throat out with a grappling hook, cornered like a feral dog with no other choice but to use what she had, she had regrouped with the team with so much blood on her that it was hard for them to tell where hers began and the enemies ended. Clumped into her lashes and sprayed across her cheeks, drying and flaking from the dry humid air but with no option to wash up. There were too many times to recall in which Scout had turned, like a switch in her head; snapped necks and gauged eyes, bullets lodged through skulls and countless enemies drowned in shallow buckets even after giving up the information she came for.

There was no way Ghost could perceive her as soft or fragile, convince himself that she needed protecting or shielding from the throws of war, she was very much in-tune with it all. She was a force of nature, beautiful yet all so fucking devastating, an unstoppable potency of might behind those strong eyes. A fold of determination knitted into her brow almost every time he looked at her when out in the field, she was strong willed with a compulsion to fight, engrained into the fibres of her bones, it was in her fucking DNA.

Ghost blinked down at her and she finally cocked her head to meet his gaze, he could see it, she was going to go on that mission regardless of what he had to say, but part of her was reluctant.

Reluctant in the sense that she knew her sense of judgment would, more often then not, come before his. Yes, he was her lieutenant and yes she would follow orders, but when things boiled down; Scout wouldn’t take things laying down, if it was her life on the line for the sake of her team or a larger narrative, then her funeral was already planned.

The lieutenant looked ahead, the others too distracted as they made their way to the stairwell that led downstairs to the food hall, he darted his eyes from her to them a few times before he finally pounced. His fingers tightened around the fabric sitting on Scout’s shoulders, throwing his eyes back over his shoulder as he pushed her into a doorway that sat at the top of the stairwell, around a corner and well hidden.

She gasped but Ghost was quick to press a gloved hand over her mouth, snuffing out the noise, he jutted his chin- watching over the solid wall of the banister separating them from the stairs below, the boys were long gone. When he turned his gaze back to her it made his stomach lurch with that familiar licking heat at the base of his spine, coiling to the forefront; she was wide eyed, neck craned back to look at him better, he could so easily shove her to her knees right here. Fuck her throat till she sobbed and spluttered nonsense around his cock, what he would fucking give.

Ghost removed his hand from her mouth, her pretty lips agape as she breathed in deep, eyes suddenly all glossy and wide for him. He couldn’t help but find her pretty like this, secretly tucked away with him, preempting his movement as her head swam. She probably thought he’d press her against the wall, hook her leg over his hip and fuck her silly till he convinced her not to take the mission; but as much as the thought tempted him, he couldn’t do that.

He raised his hand instead, a soft gesture as he pressed his gloved palm to her cheek, running his thumb over the small stretched scar that now sat there. A marred line of silvery-pink splitting her cheek - contrasting to the smooth of her skin, a reminder that back in Mexico, Ghost hadn’t quite been quick enough.

She practically purred at his touch, pressing into him, her own hand coming to lay over his.

“I don’t care if you go” he finally said, words gruff in that deep throaty tone of his. She frowned, barely enough for him to catch but still enough for him to notice, his eyes flashed.

“I just need you to come back” he cocked his head at her, pressing his gaze into her as if he would be able to see the cogs turn and gears whirr. Scout closed her mouth, mulling over his words, digesting the real meaning behind them -

I just need you to come back to me

She had nodded gently, eyes softening as she began to understand. Ghost didn’t flinch away when she moved her hand from his and pressed it against the hem of his mask, tugging it up from where it was tucked into his collar, shoving it up till it sat against the bridge of his nose; after that he hadn’t needed guiding, hadn’t needed Scout to initiate anymore. He’d kissed her till her knees wobbled, clinging to his shoulder as his tongue curled over her teeth, unable to keep himself from falling into her.

Scout had to shove him away with considerable force and remind him that they’d miss lunch if he wasn’t careful.

“I can have something else for lunch” he’d growled lowly in her ear, cupping her pussy through her jeans as she stifled her moan in the collar of his jacket, fisting it tight in her hands.

That was three weeks ago, now. In the time since then herself and Gaz had been sent on their reconnaissance assignment and returned. Soap and Ghost had been sent on a hostage evacuation in Russia; somewhere close to Moscow.

A politician, of course, had gotten caught up in the wrong kind of people, it was always the same thing time after time. All about the money and the power, blackmailing and illegal trading, the team had seen it more times than they cared to count. Yet, they still shipped out, because they’re still pressed under the thumbs of the government at the end of the day.

As Scout continued to try and settle the adrenaline buzzing away under her skin; walking her third lap of the training yard, a familiar whistle whipped and echoed around the emptiness of the air, catching her attention. She turned toward the sound, eyes narrowing as they fell on a tall figure, mohawk too hideous to miss. She smiled and moved to jog toward him, breath fanning back across her face as she neared closer to him.

Soap must have only just gotten back, his thick weathered jacket was zipped to his chin and his neck gaiter was sitting snug around his throat and pulled to his lips. He looked tired and content, undoubtedly a mission success, his hands were folded lazily in his pockets as he watched Scout come closer.

The man held out his palm to her, Scout clapping her own against it and gripping it, pulling him toward her and pressing her other palm against his shoulder, tucking herself into his side for a hug as the scent of him drifted into her nose. He smelled of gunpowder and old coins, something else spicy yet sturdy mingling on the soft skin of this throat.

“Long time no see, sarg” she’d smiled, stepping back out of his space, folding her arms over her chest as she did. He cocked his head toward her.

“It’s been a while hasn’t it, lass” a soft smile slanted across his mouth, eyes rolling over her features as he looked at her.

There was no way she could help it, but Scout let her eyes quickly dart to the space behind the sergeant, hoping his hulking British counterpart wasn’t far behind. She refocused her attention quickly, grateful that Soap was looking around the training yard, noting she was out here all by herself.

The smaller soldier palmed the back of her neck, rolling it out. “When did you get back in?”

Soap met her eye, “just” he said, “Ghost’s debriefing Laswell as we speak” he sounded tired, his accent thicker and trickier to decipher than it usually was. It wasn’t surprising, it’s hard to get used to the ever changing pace the military forces down their throats, even if they do get time to shut their eyes, it’s never peaceful. In a foreign country, miles from home soil, the prospect of a blood filled brawl looming over their head - it’s not exactly a recipe for peaceful slumber.

Soap’s eyes drifted back out into the training yard, the fog was lifting, a veil of it attempting to cloud the sunrise as it bloomed over the horizon. Orange and blue.

Scout stood beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him against the sweat cooling on her skin, she followed his gaze as he broke the silence. “D’ya remember when we first met you?” He tipped his chin slightly as he asked, eyes falling to Scout’s to gage her reaction, as if he wanted to watch her replay the memory in her head.

She smiled, “how could I forget?”

Going back years, now, back when Scout wasn’t Scout. When she was just a soldier; a number pulled from a hat, one standing in the line of many. That was before she was handpicked for her remarkable skill and technical ability, known only by her last name and her title; sergeant. A holder of drill records and the subject of many conversations between soldiers. The one with the big mouth and wavering temper, the one who spoke her truth and her mind, and had the skills to back up her words too.

Price had found her, or rather, she had been found for him. Put forward and recommended time after time, with each new mission or special task force assembled, her name was shoved into the hands of captains and generals alike. Her temper and sharp tongue got in the way a lot of the time, because for each time she was written up for standing up for herself or holding her ground, it only had another opportunity scratched for her.

Until Price was made aware of her, until a file attachment found its way to his emails with video link after video link of this sergeant in action during training. She was quick and nimble; a near perfect shot as a sniper and a dab hand at demolition, even her hand to hand was remarkable, against opponents much bigger and stronger than her. Her statistics spoke for themselves, it was all there in black and white, she was undoubtedly an asset.

Captain Price snapped her up at the first chance he got. He read over her records, he wasn’t put off by the write ups, didn’t even make him question her for a second. It made him think about how well she might fit into his varied team, simply another personality to add to the handful of others he already had clashing in the group, there was nothing more that could surprise him. Especially not after Soap, that time he’d punched a military police officer, there was little more that could stop Price from accepting someone into his force.

The transfer had been a quick turn around. With her gear packed she was shipped off on her way, a truck carrying her to her new base, her new home away from home.

As the tires rolled across the tarmac and crunched to a stop, the sergeant had stolen a gaze out of her window, met with what looked to be her entire team. Four men and a woman, she recognised the woman as Kate Laswell, and one of the men as her new Captain - having met him before the transfer. The rest of the men she had yet to meet, for obvious reasons, and she half thought she would get time to retrieve her bag before she was forced to face her new team. Obviously not.

She jumped out of the vehicle, gear weighing her down as her boots collided with the concrete. It was dead silent and she had the subconscious urge to fill it, if this is what this team was like, she had a feeling her personality wouldn’t fit in well here. She stepped forward, flipping her cap around so it’s visor faced backwards, better for her to make eye contact with the tall men standing sturdy in front of her. The sergeant left her bag in the truck, immediately stepping forward toward her new team, and that’s when she caught it.

“Who let the Boy Scouts start signin’ up?”

The voice was low and stoney, it made her bristle, clenching her teeth as her eyes darted toward the source of the snide comment. She was met with a mask. A balaclava stitched with a skull around the lower jaw, dark eyes glaring pointedly at her like she’d done something to purposefully offend the man. She took the bait. “Same ones who let pricks like you rank up” she’d said it before she registered it, too used to her own base, throwing insults back at soldiers who made quips and remarks day in-day out. For a split second, she’d forgotten where she was, the muscle memory of the verbal self defence too engrained for her to stop it.

Two of the men whistled, she later learned they were Gaz and Soap, the latter patting the masked man on the shoulder as he recoiled from her remark. “That Boy Scout is a fuckin lass, L.t” the Scotsmen roared a laugh, and for a second she thought it was directed at her, but it was in fact directed at the man in the mask. She quickly realised, not only had she insulted a member of her team, he was her new Lieutenant. She froze in her step, eyes still locked with the mask and she saw something flash within his irises, it was a quick fleeting realisation for him. He had thought she was a man, a small one, with the cap and the gear he’d failed to register from a distance that she was a woman.

Only when she came closer into his clear view and spoke did he realise she was female, the softness in her cheeks and the lines of her body screamed anything but Boy Scout.

From that day forward she had been dubbed; Scout. An endearing inside joke between the team that would stay with her until she resigned from duty or died out on the field. A nickname she grew to love, because of the man who had ultimately given it to her, forever reminding both of them of their first ever interaction, even if it wasn’t the way they wished it had gone.

On her first mission shipping out with 141, Scout had been going through her pack, rearranging and swapping things out to put things in, going over it all over and over again until it gave her a headache. She emptied a front pocket, undoing the zip to find a scrunch of folded paper stuffed inside of it. She tentatively pulled it out, curious, finding a swirl of bold writing scratched into it. A simple sorry with a tiny drawing of a skull etched into the paper next to it.

She would never tell him, but Scout still had that piece of paper saved- carried in the front pocket of her vest wherever she went.

Soap and Scout stood there in the cold, stupid slanting smiles as they reminisced on their past, light memories of better times. When none of them were injured and they worked on base together for weeks at a time to strengthen their bond as a team, now it felt as if they were passing ships.

The relationship between Scout and the Scotsman was rooted in the same boar-headedness and alike ideals. They were so similar it caused them to butt heads a lot of the time, always trying to one up each other in the sense that they both lacked self preservation, always willing to throw their life in the mix when things got tricky.

Ghost didn’t like it; he had to do enough babysitting with just Soap alone, keeping a rein on his outlandish ideas and suicide plans - then Scout had come along and shoved her stick into the pot.

Despite their similarities when it came to work ethics, they were vastly different in personality. While the Scot was loudmouthed, extroverted and downright unabashed with the attention his presence warranted; Scout was much more reserved, adding her ten pence where it mattered, but watching from the sidelines - not at all wanting the attention to drift to her.

Yet, it always did, inevitably, a lass like her- in a job like this. It drew attention, all of it Ghost hated; drunkards in pubs that would slink up to her at the bar and beg to buy her a drink, the rookies on base were the worst of it all, a constant dick measuring contest between them, desperate to see who could get her to bite first.

Much to Ghost’s pleasure, Scout did always bite, just not they way they were intending.

The day Scout got pulled in by the higher ups for breaking a kids wrist had, undoubtedly, been one of the best days of Ghost’s life.

He’d watched it all unfold, not bothering to intervene as he continued to finish his reps on the chest pull, eyes watching intently as the rookie sidled up to her from across the gym with his chest puffed out, daring to let his hand slide over the small of Scout’s back as she leant down to tie her shoelace. It was like a whip cracking, so quick you’d miss it if you blinked, her concise movement and perfect angle had snapped the poor bastards wrist in two, the shrieking wail of pain he let out having everyone in the gym bristling and swivelling their heads.

Scout hadn’t said a single word to him, barely broken a sweat, not even a slight change to her expression.

She’d stood her ground when they threatened to discharge her; told them that she had every right to do what she did, that it was an engrained reflex, a tick from the army, a reaction to any kind of foreign touch that she wasn’t expecting. Ghost knew she’d blagged it, played it smart, fed them what they didn’t want to hear. She was safe on base, for the most part - especially with Ghost there, and Scout didn’t have as many years under her belt as Ghost did. So when she told them that it was purely a chemical reaction in her brain after the years of fighting and looking over her shoulder, they had no option but to send her on her way with merely a slap on the wrist.

Safe to say she was given a wide birth around base after that.

That’s when Ghost had realised; Scout was so much like him, and maybe that’s why they understood each other so well. Both basking in the shadows, watching from afar yet still engaging in conversation when it was needed, a preference to remain settled in the background. Ghost’s was an aversion to the socialising, he was calculated in his thoughts, eyes always watching the exits and doorways, knife sheathed in his waistband at all times. It wasn’t paranoia, he was just well versed enough to know that this line of work would catch up to him somewhere one day, he just didn’t know when and where.

Whereas Scout was simply quieter in her nature, she’d aged in her years of service; despite the stories Price and other soldiers had to tell of a young spitfire with no filter and a habit of getting into bar fights, Ghost struggled to imagine that of her. Even when they went to the pub on a rare occasion, she’d barely finish the one rum and coke she would order, sipping at it gingerly as she watched Soap chat up a bird across the bar. The Scot had called her boring once, a night of respite in Galway, drunk words spitting at her to pull the stick out of her arse every once in a while; she’d sat quiet, eyeing Soap as she took another sip, unbothered about engaging with him.

Ghost had his suspicions, expected she wasn’t one to hold her alcohol well, she’d either spin someone’s jaw or spill her feelings for all to see - but it was abundantly clear; she didn’t want to do either of those things in front of these boys. Maybe if she was just another soldier, a troop in a squadron, pulled out of line by her number; but she wasn’t. She was special forces, she had earned her place here amongst them, and she wasn’t about to put it in jeopardy over embarrassment or image issues.

It was another hour before Ghost was done with his debrief to Laswell.

Scout wouldn’t admit it, but she milled around, walking through the corridors, eyeing the ceiling or watching as her boots scuffed the floor. She managed a shower between making her rounds of the base, had little more to do than wait for him, it was like this every time, some way or another, he would find her.

It was only when she bumped into Price that she noticed something off- because he was on the phone to Laswell.

The captain mouthed a greeting but continued on his way, speaking into his phone with a hushed voice. That in itself wasn’t abnormal, Price was always wrapped up with other duties; a constant stack of files atop his desk that he loathed having to sort through, more often then not he had to get someone to physically lock him into his office so it would get done.

What was strange on the other hand- was Ghost’s absence. Sometimes, when he’d had a rough go at it on a mission he would return sour. Cut himself off and shut himself away to gather himself, lick his metaphorical wounds in secret like a battered dog. Scout understood it, any soldier did, it’s hard to speak openly about what they see when they’re out there, it’s even hardener to try and get it off their chest - because anyone in the closest proximity has seen the same, if not worse. It’s not the nicest feeling to dump shit on someone that already has a growing closet of their own skeletons.

Ghost wasn’t privy to Scout’s skeletons, much like she wasn’t his. They weren’t there yet, maybe they never would be, but regardless; they still understood. One of the few unspoken things between them, it seemed like they just knew what was and wasn’t needed. She didn’t pry into his past, him the same regarding her, because they both knew that they weren’t ready to play therapist. It was enough to deal with what was coming and going, dealing with the present - the now.

They’d deal with the rest when they were dead.

When Scout’s thoughts started to trail away from her, the ping of her phone drew her attention. It was embarrassing how quick she wrenched it from her pocket, eyes dancing over the notification with a new found excitement.

Come to bed

Read: 10:17am

Short. Concise. To the point. A point Scout had no room in her chest to argue with.

If someone asked her what Ghost was to her, she wasn’t sure what she would say. This, arrangement between them, it had clearly gone past the point of a physical use of one another to strip away the tension and angst of war. No longer was it just simply fucking, of course the sex had started as the deeper rooted catalyst, but the sex was - dare she say, tender.

Before, it hurt, because it needed to hurt; Scout had wanted it to hurt. She hurt him as much as he hurt her, blood under her nails and on her tongue, teeth stained with him. That’s what it had all been about, drawing that pain from within one another, using it as a crutch instead of drowning themselves with tumbler after tumbler of whiskey or numbing it all with prescription opioids.

When the two of them had first crossed the line; it had been a spur of the moment drunken fumbling. Back then, Scout had told herself that wether it was Soap, Gaz or Ghost who put the offer out there, she wouldn’t have minded. Because she needed to relieve that coiling burn in her chest and abdomen, it felt like she would go insane if she didn’t.

Now, she slipped into his room carefully, latch clicking back into place as she shut it quietly. It was dark, the only light being that of the steadily waking sky, flittering through the cracks above and below the shoddy curtains that didn’t quite reach across the entire window. It wasn’t dark enough that she couldn’t seek him out, he blended with the shadows, but Scout was sure she could seek him out even if she was blind and deaf with her hands cut off. She could make out the outline of him, framed in a wave of heat that rolled from him, steady even breathing fanning freely from his nose.

His mask was off.

He didn’t move, didn’t so much as flinch as his dark eyes watched her, like a predator waiting to pounce, a crocodile watching as a sweet deer drinks from the watering hole. Soon between its teeth, weak noises bleeding out with its last ragged breath.

Scout stopped at the foot of his bed, tugging off her shoes before she dug her knees into his mattress, making her way closer.

He shifted “take it all off” his voice rasped, low and full of sleep. Gravel and ice. It sent heat licking down her spine, a shiver running straight down to her toes. Of course, she obliged, she stepped off the bed again and did as asked, dutiful soldier she was - anything for her Lieutenant.

Again, she couldn’t see him, not entirely, but she could feel his gaze. How he practically stripped her with his own eyes, boring through her skin and deep into the marrow of her bones. It made her slick between her thighs, just the thought of him had her pressing her knees together. She ached for him, felt the pull in her muscles every time he fucked her like it would be the last time, because one day - it just might just be.

Scout joined him again, she heard him shift, sitting straighter against the wall at the head of his bunk. Now she was close, her thigh pressing into his as he pulled her closer by the wrist, she felt the coarse hair on his leg against her flesh. He was already stripped bare himself, save for his boxers, freshly showered and warm- he was entirely and utterly open.

His fingers didn’t release from around her wrist, he tugged till she was awkwardly strewn across his lap, his other hand shifting to hold the base of her neck, bringing the top of her head to his lips.

“Fuckin’ missed you” all smoke and gunpowder in her ears, so low it was almost a whisper. He took a long drag into his nostrils, already on his way to being high off her scent, shampoo from her hair fresh and sweet to his senses. Scout pressed her palms against his chest, the heat almost burning, feverish under her fingertips.

“I missed you too” she let the words drift to him, even if the light was too dim, she still couldn’t bring herself to match his gaze. Maybe he had said it first, but that could easily be put down to the jet lag, delirious from the lack of sleep and the draining aftermath once the adrenaline of a mission washes away.

Ghost grumbled something low, pure sex as it rose from the depths of his chest. His palm slid from the back of her head to her neck, then to her throat, light pressure as he pulled her mouth flush to his. Scout keened, palm holding his jaw as his tongue slid over hers, claiming her mouth. The dance was well rehearsed, each move in tandem, like running through a check list. His hands roamed, tugging her as close as she could possibly be- any closer and she’d melt into him.

The only barrier between their sexes were their underwear, sliding friction of her clothed pussy against the strain in his boxers. Ghost growled in his throat as Scout moved to straddle him, knees splitting painfully wide over his hips, ass seated on the meat of his glorious thighs. Their mouths never parted, cresting teeth biting into her lip as she gasped, calloused palms kneading the flesh of her thighs and ass till she mewled. She was so wet already, soaked to her core, slick and hot and ready for him to ruin her again and again.

“Fuck” she whispered against his mouth, biting smile curling his mouth afterwards as he rubbed his stubbled jaw into the soft crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin. Scout was more intoxicating than any whiskey or bourbon Ghost was yet to encounter, more addicting in the same sense, a sturdy punch to the gut.

Ghost leaned forward, uncoiling his arm from behind her back, pressing his fingers into the sopping fabric covering the cleft of her pussy, teasing. She cowered, practically shivering under his touch, so keen for him that it made her shake. His other hand gripped her chin, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Scout focused her eyes- noticing she could just about catch the fleeting light in those amber-hickory eyes.

It sent another shiver down her spine, liquid want pooling in her belly, drawing her even closer into him. She pressed forward, kissing him again, raking her tongue over his teeth with any ounce of dominance she could muster; Ghost grinned against her mouth, how bold of her, he would let her take as much as she was willing.

He revelled in the way she reacted to him. In every sense, her body; the way he could merely look at her from across a room and she’d cross her legs, he didn’t miss the little gestures. He didn’t even have to touch her to get under her skin, just his gaze and presence alone could draw things from her.

He wished he could watch it back, still letting her kiss him with a feverish clash of teeth and small-calloused hands gripping the skin of his tummy, her nails raking deep into his skin as he took her off guard. All of the air from her lungs was punched out when Ghost curled two thick digits into her cunt, crooking against her gummy walls, so slick for him already. She screwed her eyes shut, head thrown back as she squirmed, grinding down against the friction of his hand. He hummed, feeling how she dripped onto his wrist, the smell of her arousal already tacky in the air, lust and sex stifling the air in his room.

“So fuckin’ tight darlin’” he rasped, lips sucking a bruise between her tits as he leant forward, angling his wrist to reach even deeper, drawing all the best sounds from her pretty throat.

“Shit- Simon” she whined, lip between her teeth as she arched backwards, palms pressing against his shins as she worked herself on his fingers, pressing her tits into his face as he sucked and lapped at the tender skin there.

She never tired of it. Couldn’t, even if she tried, she would never meet another man or woman that would make her feel the way Ghost was able. It was as if he knew her body, knew what made her tick, almost like he could feel it - somatic.

Scout near enough shrieked when he pressed the pad of his thumb against her clit, a new found urge to make her cum driving its way deep in his chest. He added another finger, screwing into her, splitting her open so she could easily take his cock. She savoured it, amusing him when she bucked her hips, rolling them against the strokes of his hands, meeting him halfway.

“Look at you, gorgeous, so desperate to be filled” she could taste his smirk when he claimed her lips in another filthy kiss, smothering her down, any noise from her dissipating when he curled his fingers in that way he knew she liked, she craved it. Scout couldn’t help it, couldn’t even think about keeping quiet, she was panting against his skin, fogging him up.

“Fuck- I’m-“ she swallowed, throat dry, “I’m gonna cum like this” she tells him but he already knows, gladly acknowledges the fluttering of her walls around the notches of his knuckles.

“Go on then” he presses, teasing her clit again, rocking the heel of his palm against her in rhythm, watching as she throws her head back just as her world shatters.

She’s always so pretty when she cums he thinks, he’d give an arm or a leg to watch the sight over and over again whenever he wished, no missions or obligations to keep her from him. It’s selfish, but he can’t seem to give a shit, not when he’s got her here like this, curled into him, fucking herself on his hand, all to get her ready to split open on his cock.

Before it’s fully settled, her orgasm fizzing out, she’s grabbing at him, shoving his boxers down his thighs with an awkward tug that makes him smirk, lifting his hips as she manhandles him to make it easy for her. Ghost almost bites through his bottom lip when he watches her, pretty pink tongue running from the heel of her palm to the tip of her fingers, wetting it to get him slick, pressing her hand to his cock and curling her fingers around him - it makes him choke. He rumbles in his chest, it’s been so long since he’s had her, too long since he’s had her smell under his nose and his skin under his fingers, it sets a coil of resentment settling in his chest. Fuck whatever power in the universe that keeps pulling them in opposite directions, Ghost is a smart man, but his patience and loyalty to his work be damned; right now, he’d give it all up for her.

His hands settle at her hips when she shifts, angles herself up, resting higher on her knees so she can press the head of his cock between the slicked folds of her pussy, get him soaked in her juices so the sting doesn’t bite too hard. Because it will, it’s been weeks, longer than he’s been away because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her when she was injured - no matter how hard she tried to convince him that she’d be fine.

Ghost’s fingers sink right to the bones in her hips when she begins to press herself down onto him, inch by torturous fucking inch she goes, rocks her hips so the head catches something fleshy inside, makes his eyes roll like marbles in his skull.

“Christ” she bites out, jaw clenched, features of that pretty face twisted in pain. Such a brave girl he thinks - knows, always trying to put on a front, even as she fucks herself on his cock. He reaches a big paw up, slides it over her cheek and holds her still, those teary eyes looking at him like he holds the world in his hand - right now, he does.

“Breathe, love” he whispers, tenderly, as best he can.

She nods at him, matches the way he takes a deep breath in and out, helps her flatten her pelvis to his, sunken to the hilt, stuffed to the brim with his cock and his adoration. It’s a sickly feeling, how soft he can be, how he reserves it all for her, stuffs her full of it till it all spills over: drowning her in it.

Scout rolls her hips forward, catching friction on the thatch of hair at his groin, pressing her chest to his so their flesh slicks up together, her nipples catching over his chest, too close for comfort and yet still not close enough.

“You’re so good” he lets free, jaw slack as he mouths over her jaw, chaste open-mouth kisses littered over any patch of skin he can reach. His words make her chest swell, fuzzy and static, too much warmth from him that makes her clench around his cock. Scout slurs a curse under her breath.

“Never get used to this” she breathes, whispers it into his throat when he presses up and forward, fucking up into her so her tits sway against him and she’s forced to brace her hands onto his biceps.

“Me neither, darlin’” he sucks a bruise into her throat, feeling how it makes her pussy walls tighten, fluttering around him, coaxing his release out of him like she’s moulded for him.

Neither of them last, she’s already ahead of him, but it doesn’t take much for Ghost to see the light, bathed in the starchy blissful heat that sears every nerve ending in his body, wringing him out for everything he’s worth. He can’t help himself, he presses the pad of his thumb to her sore clit even as she’s cumming, pumping her cunt full of his cum, brimming at the seams till it leaks back out and smothers between where their hips press tightly together. She pulls out everything he has to offer, seizing it all and not letting anything be left behind, only then does she sag into him. Pressed into each other as lays atop him, face tilted up so her jaw sits in the space between his neck and his jaw, only inches between their faces.

He never used to; but he’s become accustomed to the afterglow, it’s no longer a looming and harrowing afterthought that dowses him in ice-cold reality. He basks in it now, heaving breaths that intwine with hers, nothing but the scent of sex and her skin under his nose. Pressed close.

She closes her eyes, takes it in, enjoys this time like it’s a saints gift, a holy touch. It’s rare these days, that she gets him like this, it’s not just the quick fucking between intervals, her trousers around her knees as he fucks her quick and messy somewhere secluded, tidying her up afterward and sending her on her way with a deadly smack to the arse. This is different, the part she’s growing to like too much, unknowing that he too thinks the world of this time. He finds he wants time to stop entirely, not just for the sex, but just for holding her close like this, feeling the thrum of her heartbeat as it knocks into his. Both alive and well.

Ghost slides his hand up from where it’s laid over the small of her back, that curve of her spine he likes to rake his teeth over, his hand settles on her cheek again, makes her open those pretty eyes of hers to look at him. He doesn’t say anything, the touch speaks volumes, so much so that she meets him in the middle, pushes her self up enough that she can seal her lips over his. It’s tender, sickly and sweet in a way he reserves only for these times; the two of them fucking in the safety of his bed or hers behind a locked door. Not because he’s shameful or embarrassed of her, not at all, but because he takes off the mask for her - strips Ghost away entirely so that it’s only Simon that remains.

He’s sure she knows by now, she’s not that dense, but she doesn’t make a big deal of it, she keeps it to herself like the special thing it is. Another line is stepped over, anymore and there will be no going back, but it seems neither of them want to.

Both too reliant on one another to keep each other alive and kicking.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Pride! One of the genderbendy stories, please? Lady Mo, maybe?

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

Xuanyu groans and rolls her eyes when Lan Wangji insists on treating her wounds before they continue, but apparently decides she's tested his patience enough for one evening because she says, "Fine," and and begins to untie her robe.

He steps closer and grabs her wrists. "What are you doing?"

She looks up at him and this close he can see the exhaustion lingering in her dark eyes. "You just said you wanted to bandage me up before we left again!"

"You cannot undress in front of," he gestures around them.

She frowns, following his hand, and then looks down at herself. "Oh. Right, forgot that mattered now." He quirks an eyebrow and she blinks, face going a shade paler before she pastes a too wide smile across her face. "Okay, well, the carriage then?" She doesn't wait for him to answer, instead raising her voice to shout, "Sizhui, make sure our guests get something to eat before we get moving."

"Yes, Lady Xuanyu," Sizhui says, more formerly than he would normally, but Sizhui takes after him in that he tends to fall back on formality when he's feeling out of sorts.

Lan Wangji sighs and leads her to the carriage with a hand on the small of her back. His instinct is to grab her arm and drag her there, but she gets squirmy and argumentative, and he's had quite enough of both.

She hops into the carriage, only wincing at little at the sudden motions, and he follows her in, setting down the supplies he'd grabbed and then closing the doors firmly behind them.

"It's really not that bad," she says as she undoes her robes and slides them down her shoulders. "We'll have time to bathe when we arrive at Koi Tower and I could have just cleaned them there. They don't really need bandages."

He ignores her and doesn't let his eyes linger on her breasts even as he gets flash of memory of closing his lips around a small, dark nipple and biting, his tongue running the indents his teeth had left in soft flesh.

"You didn't need to go running off alone," he says, hoping it's dark enough that she doesn't see the flush he can feel crawling up his neck.

She scoffs as he presses a damp cloth against the stab wound between her shoulder and collarbone, cleaning away the tacky blood. "Song Lan needed help and he's my friend."

Lan Wangji wants to ask once again how in the world she knew were Xiao Xingchen was, how she'd been able to lead Song Lan right to him, but one issue at a time. "You could have told us that and we would have helped."

"Uh huh," she says.

He presses down harder than he'd intended and she hisses in pain. He pulls back, grudgingly admitting to himself that she was right. The wound has already closed and the bruises covering her chest have turned a sickly yellow, looking days old rather than hours. He's never seen anyone improve a golden core so quickly before, especially using such dubious methods.

He doesn't want to say the wrong thing, so he gives himself time to gather his thoughts as he wrings out the cloth. "We are not the Mo. Or the Jin."

"Uh, yeah? I noticed," she answers, pulling her robes open even wider to reveal even more bruised skin and the curved slice around her right hip.

"Have you," he asks quietly, keeping his touch gentle as he cleans the blood from thigh. "You are not - you don't have to," he stops, taking a deep breath and pausing his motions so he doesn't accidentally hurt her again. "You are not required to tell me anything that you don't want me to know. However. I am your husband."

"I noticed that too," she says, voice coming out low, and Lan Wangji does not allow himself to be distracted by the fact that he's kneeling over his mostly naked wife, her body small and soft and strong, evening bleeding and bruised.

"Then you should act like it," he returns, and odd reversal of their argument after the waterfall. "In the Lan you are not a bastard daughter but my legitimate wife. If you'd told me you wished to assist Song Lan, I would have helped you, and others would have volunteered to accompany us. You would not have needed to go alone. "

Xuanyu glares at him, somehow even more compelling with the anger brightening her eyes. "I was fine alone. I didn't need you."

"This is not about needing," he says softly, "but about having. Whether you need me or not is irrelevant. You have me. Next time I hope you remember that."

He ties her inner robe together before jumping out of the carriage, leaving her to redress herself. He feels the weight of her gaze on him, but she doesn't say anything.

Lan Wangi sighs, rubbing at his forehead. He drops into the seat next to his brother, noting Sizhui and Jingyi sitting at the same table as their guests and insistently putting more and more food on their plates over their protests. Well, Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen's protests. A-Qing seems quite happy to eat everything put in front of her.

Xichen raises an eyebrow.

"How long did it take Jin Guangyao to trust you?" he asks impulsively, regretting asking almost as soon as it's out of his mouth.

Xichen sighs, "Oh, Wangji," and doesn't answer.

[volturissideslut]

Hii!! Can you do Jane x reader where she’s Jane’s mate but still human. One day some important information gets leaked out and everyone in the volturi thinks the reader leaked the info. (Aro can’t read her mind) So they question her for a long time and when she still says that she didn’t do it they make Jane torture her with her power. As Jane is torturing her someone walks in and says that she didn’t do it. By the time Jane stops the reader is passed out. Everyone and mostly Jane regrets what they’ve done. The reader doesn’t wake up for a few days and Jane is in absolute sorrow. And when she finally wakes up she doesn’t even look Jane in the eyes bc of the betrayal she feels. Just a lot of angst yk:))) Buuut they make up in the end. Thank youuu🫶🏻

𝕵𝖆𝖓�� 𝖁𝖔𝖑𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎

This is more of the aftermath than anything. Mentions of looking thinner

"Get out"

Though your voice was hoarse, it didn't lessen the impact. Not one bit. Jane didn't think it was possible to vampires to have panic attacks, yet what else could this be. Why was her chest so tight? She doesn't need to breathe. And though she can't sweat he skin feels clammy behind all her layers. She's a vampire, their brains go fast - she could finish a novel in five minutes, but this feels too fast. It's making her dizzy. It's making her sick.

"Please-" her mouth feels dry. Is she panting? Why does it feel like Felix is cracking her chest again? You two can get through this. You can move past this. The thought is the only thing keeping her semi-rational right now. "I can't even look at you right now. Please leave, Jane. I can't see you anymore" and god you look so broken. And she did it. Your skin looks sickly, at least seven shades yellower. And your eyes - so dull - are dragged down by the bags she gave you. Are you thinner? You look thinner, you look malnourished. Definitely unhealthy.

It's the shakey movement of your hand accompanied by a wince that pulls her from her intense observation. And she remembers what you want. She wants to stay - absolutely has to - but she can't ruin this even more. She needs to save this and even now she recognises that her being here will be detrimental to that. So she does leave.

Out the door, she sits on the floor and stares at the ceiling. Not that her eyes are recognising anything though. No. Her head is leaned back against the big double door to your shared chambers and all she can bring herself to do is listen intently to your heartbeat. You're still here. You're still safe.

You, on the other side of the door, can no longer bring yourself to stifle your own sobs at the betrayal. Your mate, your love, the one who promised to always protect you, had actually been the only vampire to hurt you. The only one you ever truly trusted. Though her gift is mental, the rough treatment had still hared you. But it was hard to tell what hurt more - the mental scar on the one on your heart.

Could you even stay?

Maybe it was time to leave

--------

That night you packed, leaving through the window. Were you as strong as them? No. But could trust Jane and be in the same place as her? Also no.

It was killing you just to be in that room, with all of them memories. All of them were now tainted, and now you could see all the similarities between her room and the dungeons.

Bag at your side mainly just filled with your previous belongings you couldn't part with, you climbed out the window only to be face to face with Alec. For fucks sake.

"You shouldn't be here," his tone was more concerned than accusing. Was he actually worried for you, though, or was he more bothered about his sister? that seemed like the more likely answer. "come. Ill walk you back" he takes the bag for you and begins to guide you gently back, hand delicately on your arm as if you were made of porcelain. He looked guilty. Remorseful even.

He led you back the longer way round as if he was giving you time. He even sat with you in the garden for a few minutes - until Jane cane storming through.

"There you are! Your heartbeat grew faint and the window was open and I-" and her hand are on your face. She stops speaking when you flinch back, heart dropping to her feet, until she feels you lean into her.

Damn mate bond and damn exhaustion because you let yourself fall into her. She can feel your heart rate speed up in fear but feels frozen when you make no effort to move away.

"Let's- let's get you to bed, yeah?" she turns her head, face frightened as she mouths a 'thank you' to Alec for keeping you here and safe. He just nods, head down as he shares part of her shame. A drop in the bucket compared to hers, though.

--------

Here she lay, back in your shared chambers, sat up against the headboard of the bed while you lay on their lap asleep. Icy fingers comb through your hair and scratch lightly at your scalp.

"We'll be okay, right? We'll be okay."

[heliads]

Can I request a Loki x fem reader where the reader is a super kind empath Avenger and comforts Loki, who also has been recruited as an Avenger (very reluctantly) but is still a bit ostracized from everyone else on the team. The reader is able to see how poorly Loki was treated in the past and promises to be there for him. They both end up falling in love but are too afraid to tell each other (the reader is able to feel this weird warm and fuzzy emotion Loki directs at her and she can’t pin point what emotion it is). They end up confessing when Loki sees an avenger member take advantage of the readers sweetness so he steps into comfort her. He confesses and they kiss 😚

Also have an amazing day and take your time with requests!!!

hope you have an amazing day too!

masterlist

If you squint ever so slightly, peer out from the reach of your favorite chair just enough to see into the surrounding hallway, you can almost make out the silhouette of Tony Stark pacing back and forth outside his office door. 

As resident empath of the Avengers team, you’re in charge of reconnaissance, general battle backup, and checking in on everyone to make sure they’re still intact. You’ve also gone ahead and assumed that to mean that you can use your abilities to read the hearts of your teammates. Hey, it’s what they hired you to do, right? It’s not like you’re scanning their minds, now that would be invasive. All you’re doing is sensing how they’re feeling. Anyone could do that with a bit of good knowledge on body language.

You shift slightly, and there– you can just make out a cloud of colors circling Tony’s figure. That’s how emotions have always appeared to you ever since you were a kid. When people are having a perfectly normal day and not too much has happened, you’ll only be able to pick up on a tendril or two of colored smoke around their frame, a few hints at happy or sad but nothing too special. 

Conversely, when something crazy is going on, it’s like they’re walking out of a bank of mist, Mr. Darcy at the end of Pride and Prejudice (2005)-style. For instance, at this very moment you can’t even tell what shade of shirt Tony is wearing through the dense emotion rattling around him.

This is obviously a sign that something is going on. Usually, Tony’s pretty laid back, or at least he pretends to be. Cool blue is his trademark. Sometimes, closer to missions or just after them, you’ll see bright lime or sickly yellow lancing through them, panic and stress from too much pressure on his shoulders. You can sense his anxiety attacks before they start. Tony has no idea how many times you’ve used your gifts to divert those things, and if you have it your way, he’ll never figure it out.

Tony’s not panicking right now, though, or not in the way that you’re used to. Instead of purple or blue, all you can see around him is red, blazing red. Tony’s not usually a red kind of guy. Red means anger, outrage, and by the looks of him now, something has happened to cook up a regular bonfire of irritation.

As you watch, though, more colors join the fray. You can spot uneasy yellows and greens, an undercurrent of fear. What could possibly be going on to make Tony so unhappy? The situation is complicated, to be sure, but that’s nothing new around the Avengers. Take it from a S.H.I.E.L.D.- registered empath:  no one ever feels just one thing at one time. There’s always a dozen different emotions swirling in between your heart and head. And right now, Tony’s got quite a few to chew on.

Unable to contain your curiosity, you get up from your seat and pad over to him. Tony almost flinches when he turns and sees you, but he rubs a tired hand over one eye and greets you like normal.

You arch a brow at this attempt at pretending everything is fine. After all this time, Tony should know that you’re not one to get fooled by a pretty lie like that. “What’s going on? You’re totally freaking out.”

“So glad to see you, Y/N,” Tony complains, “I look great? Thanks for telling me. You’re always so quick with the compliments.”

You give him a look. “I know how you’re feeling. What’s up with you?”

“It’s not me you should be questioning,” he sighs, “it’s the newcomer to our team.”

You frown. “I didn’t think we were getting someone new.”

“We weren’t supposed to, but Fury added another guy last minute. Apparently it was either that or have him rot down in a cell for all eternity, and we don’t want to risk pissing off his brother,” Tony clarifies.

“Who’s his brother?” You ask, curious.

“Thor,” Tony says, and then you understand at last.

“Loki is joining the team?” You can’t believe it. Loki attacked New York all of six months ago. Sure, Fury has always been one to maximize opportunity, but you can’t believe he’d let Loki into the ranks of the Avengers so quickly.

“That’s what I said,” Tony harrumphed, “but apparently it’s already done. He’ll be coming up later today to meet us all. You know, without trying to kill us this time.”

You chuckle under your breath. “I can’t wait to see how that goes. How long do you think we have until Steve breaks out a patriotic speech on our or his behalf?”

Tony snorts. “It’ll happen any minute now. Look, here Steve comes up the stairs now. It’s like he marches everywhere he goes. Unreal.”

True to Tony’s suspicions, Steve, upon learning of Loki’s arrival, does indeed treat all of you to a talk about looking past first impressions. If the red flickering around his eyes and fists says anything, though, it’s that he’s just as pleased about the whole affair as Tony.

You, for one, aren’t sure what to make of the whole thing. Something must have happened to make Fury trust Loki, and until you learn otherwise, that’s as good an endorsement as you’ll get around here. Before long, Thor is marching into the Avengers complex with a stranger in tow, and all of a sudden, you have eyes on your new teammate.

It’s strange, your first impression of Loki. Second, technically, but you’re not counting the Battle of New York. That was different, you were trying to kill each other. Now you’re supposed to count on him to save your life.

Tony shoots a quick glance your way, cocking one brow as if to ask, getting anything? The honest answer is no, not yet. Asgardians are always hard to read, you figured that out when you first met Thor. Everything about them is different, even down to how they feel certain emotions. Loki is no exception. At first, you think he feels nothing at all. Then, you realize he’s just very good at hiding it. His back is perfectly straight, spine stiff and unfeeling.

That is, until you look a little deeper and you start to see the threads of colors playing around his clothes, his hands, his blank stare. They’re green in color, green and gold like the stitching on his apparel. They’re not happy emotions, these, they’re–

They’re fear. Loki is afraid. Not that anyone here will kill him, not that sort of fear. He is certain that all of you will reject him, that this great god will have to watch humans laugh at him and just deal with it anyway.

You can understand feeling like that. When you were first recruited to the Avengers, you almost thought it was a joke. Surely an empath wouldn’t be useful in the heat of the battle. They had to convince you of that later, once you could start changing people’s emotions instead of just reading them. Still, you know what it’s like to doubt yourself, even when you’re sure that you are worth more than anyone can imagine.

So, you step forward first, and greet him with a smile. “I’m Y/N,” you say, “it’s good to see you.”

Loki arches a brow, and you don’t have to read minds to know that he’s thinking is it? as strongly as he can. This confusion only grows when you hold out a hand to him. For a moment, you think he’s going to reject you, but your smile stays insistent. He doesn’t have to like you at all, but goddamnit, you’re going to like him. He can deal with that on his own terms.

He must be able to pick up on this sort of stubbornness, and for some reason this is what wins him over at last. Loki extends his hand to shake yours, and just like that, the ice is broken. It’s as if a collectively held breath is released across the room.

That isn’t to say that the rest of the Avengers take to him so readily, nor that Loki is as willing to accept them as you. He tends to stick to himself, avoiding crowds unless he can’t avoid it. He begrudgingly tells you it’s because being around that many people either reminds him of Asgard or the battle or both.

He tells you a lot, actually. It doesn’t all happen at first. He may have shaken your hand, but he seems dead set on despising you. However, you’d made up your mind to win him over at that point, and you weren’t going to rest until you met your goal. It took a lot of slow, deliberate effort, but before long the conversations weren’t so one-sided and you swore he actually smiled when you entered the room.

Also, he stopped hiding his emotions as much. The first time you saw a hesitant wave of goldenrod brush across his shoulders, you thought you were hallucinating. It was there the next time you saw him, though, and the next, and the next, deepening to sunset orange and staying there. Happiness. He liked being near you.

Once trust was built, real friendship could follow suit. Turns out Loki was just as reluctant to join the Avengers as your lot was to welcome him in, but when Director Fury makes a decision, pretty much everyone has to follow suit. Thor had warned him against causing more trouble, so Loki was here to stay. He used to think that was a bad thing, but judging by the way his tone has softened as of late, he might not be so sure of that anymore.

Loki starts to tell you more, once he stops thinking of you as an outsider. He tells you about Thanos, about how he had twisted Loki’s mind so that he could only attack the city. You had suspected something was wrong with Loki during the Battle of New York– his eyes glowed a strange color, the emotions flickering around his chest were almost alien, so unusual even for a god– but hearing it is the confirmation you needed to be sure. Loki had not attacked you in his own mind. He had not tried to kill you, that was someone else forcing his hand.

That last part was especially crucial. The night he finally told you about Thanos’ control, Loki had not been able to leave until he was certain that you understood that it had not been him leading the attack on the Avengers and your home. At last, you convince him that it is alright, and only then can he rest easy.

The rest of the Avengers aren’t able to share in this peace, however. They don’t want to give Loki a chance, which, seeing as they’re not able to actually see his emotions, you can sort of understand, but at this point it’s growing tiresome. It’s been months now since Loki joined the team, and he has not lied to or betrayed or attempted to murder anyone. You want to yell at them to grow up, but you don’t feel like picking someone else’s fights.

Instead, you’d rather spend your time pondering another puzzle. Loki’s moods have shifted again towards you, but this time you cannot understand them at all. Something’s changed about the way he looks at you, how he speaks, and you have no clue what any of it means.

When you have trouble, though, there’s only one surefire solution:  you need to talk to Natasha Romanoff. Nat’s been your best friend since you joined the Avengers, actually. She gets you. You get her. It’s a good time all around.

So, Natasha doesn’t look too surprised when you all but throw yourself into one of the chairs in her favorite space in the complex one sunny morning. The only question on her mind isn’t to ask what’s up with you but what Loki’s done now.

You grimace. “I don’t know, that’s the worst part. He’s acting weirdly.”

“Isn’t that normal for Loki?” Nat questions. “I mean, he is a disgruntled younger brother/frost giant/Norse god. I feel like weird for him is kind of expected.”

“No,” you argue, “This is different. Something’s changed.”

Natasha furrows her brow. “And you haven’t been able to pick up on anything?”

“Well,” you hesitate, “maybe there’s something. I have no idea what it is, though. It’s happy, I think, but it’s sad at times, too, and flickery, like even he can’t explain it. I don’t know how to describe it in the slightest.”

She nods decisively. “It’s love.”

You blink in surprise. “What? No, I just said I had no idea what this is. There’s no way you would be able to guess it so quickly.”

Nat shrugs. “Actually, your vague description was exactly why I know what this is. Only love makes no sense like that. Love makes you happy, but it breaks your heart, right? It confuses the hell out of you because that’s what it’s supposed to do. There’s nothing else that could make anyone feel like a mess of emotion but love.”

You sigh. “That still leaves the fact that it’s Loki, though. You actually think he’s in love with me? I’m a human. I mean, inhuman, technically, but same difference to him. Why would a literal Asgardian god ever look at me like that?”

Natasha’s gaze is knowing, but you can’t quite meet her eyes. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t. You won him over faster than anyone was expecting. I think the biggest question isn’t what he’s feeling, but what you are.”

You brush her concern aside. “Well, of course I know how I feel. I’ve had this much time figuring out how other people’s emotions work, it’s like a user manual for what certain things feel like in your own head. I just can’t believe that he truly feels the same. Maybe he’s trying to trick me by pretending to feel a certain way, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Nat scoffs. “I thought you were the president of the ‘Stop Loki Hate’ fan club. What’s gotten you doubting him again?”

You shoot her a look. “I’m not doubting him, just myself. Also, there’s no such fan club. Fury banned us from attending Avengers-based clubs, remember?”

She nods mournfully. “All it took was one bad experience. Look, all of us showing up to the ‘Personally Victimized by Nick Fury’ meeting was funny. He was just being a bad sport.”

You smile fondly. “I remember. I’ve never seen that much red in my life. He was totally outraged.”

“Oh, I know. You didn’t need empathy powers to tell that much. At least we abstained from putting on the fake eye patches.” Nat muses.

You bite back a laugh. “Yeah, that might have been overkill. Anyway, back to the point. Are we sure about this?”

“We’re sure,” Natasha assures you, “I’m sure you’ll get in your own head about it later, though.”

“You can count on it,” you grin, and say your goodbyes.

Natasha is right as usual, as it turns out. Both about your feelings and the fact that you would second guess yourself. You were going to say something to Loki, but you talked yourself out of it later that night. It just feels wrong, that’s all. There’s no way a literal prince of the gods would fall in love when you’re just, well, you.

You do your best to push it out of your head, Nat’s knowing glances be damned. Life is too busy to contemplate men who won’t speak their minds. It feels like a new crisis hits New York every week. Speaking of which, you’ve actually got complaints about that. Namely, the fact that you haven’t been on a mission in quite some time despite your status as an Avenger.

You get frustrated once a couple of months have gone by without you seeing a fight. You pull Steve aside when you hear about something going wrong again. “I saw Fury’s memo about needing an extraction team for a situation over in Spain. Can I sign up?”

Steve shakes his head. “Thanks for the offer, Y/N, but we’ve already got enough guys on that team.”

You frown at him. “You can never have too many guys on an extraction team. It’s, like, Avengers lore that stuff always goes wrong on those. I can at least tag along as backup just in case. I’ll grab my gear and be off in like five minutes.”

Steve doesn’t seem willing to back down, though. “Look, I’m glad you’re passionate about the team, but we’re good, honestly. If you’re getting bored, just join the next mission, I’m sure one will come up sooner than later.”

You sigh. “That’s what everyone said last mission, and the one before that, too. I haven’t been out of the complex on official business in three months. I’m an Avenger, Steve, let me act like one.”

Steve puts his hand on your shoulder, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Y/N, I meant what I said about being glad you want to help, but this is serious. I’m a supersoldier, that’s why I’m out there all the time. Nat’s been trained for this sort of stuff since she was a kid. It makes sense to send us, right? You know we value your gifts, but we can’t risk hurting you.”

Your stomach twists. “You mean, I’m really best when I’m looking at people’s heads, not actually in a fight.”

Steve doesn’t seem to realize he’s upset you, and he nods emphatically. “Exactly! You’ve got a great skill set, just not for right now. I bet we’ll find something soon, though.”

You flash him a thumbs up, already walking back down the hallway so he can’t see the way your face twists. “Can’t wait.”

You let your composure drop the second you’re around the corner. Is this really how they feel? You were useful in the Battle of New York, you know that, and the other agents say you’ve been improving with your abilities by leaps and bounds. You’re handy with a gun or knife, too, so you know you could survive a fight and be of use. You’ve done it before, why are they so keen on stopping you now?

It makes you feel, well, useless. It’s hard to stop the tears from pricking at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly change course to head for your private quarters. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.

Of all the fantastic timing, though, the one person you want to run into least of all right now steps into the hallway just as you think that. Loki nods at you as usual, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head dismissively, trying to physically will yourself to look normal. “Nothing! I’m great. Everything’s good.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, though, and reaches out a careful hand towards you. “Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like everything is good.”

You let out a watery laugh, and that does it. “No, actually, things are terrible. Everyone on the team sees me as a joke.”

Loki frowns, clearly taken aback. “Well, that’s not true at all. I don’t see you as a joke in the slightest.”

“Everyone else, then,” you amend with a messy wave of your hand, “I’ve been trying to convince them to let me on a mission for months and they won’t do it. I know my gifts are damn near useless, but I just want to help.”

“That’s not true,” Loki repeats, “They’re a lot of good, actually, and you know that. You’re the best interrogator they have, even compared to Romanoff. You see through everyone’s lies in a heartbeat, even mine, and I’ve had plenty more time to practice them than most. You can sense a trap or ambush in half a second. They’re fools for not wanting you out there with them.”

You smile weakly at him. “You don’t have to say all of that. Thanks, though.”

“Of course I do,” Loki says blankly, “it’s true, and I need to.”

“Why?” You ask curiously.

Loki swallows hard, looks away, and then you see it again– that faint mist of pink, right over his heart. It’s just like Nat said, isn’t it? Just like that.

He forces his gaze back to you, and you’re shocked by the certainty in his eyes after all this time of ducking around your feelings. “It’s true because I love you, and I would not be able to stand it if you let the rest of them talk you into thinking otherwise. They’re toy soldiers, the lot of them, all the same. They couldn’t see real worth if it was standing right in front of them.”

You smile, and for once it’s not cracked or teary or anything, it’s real, as real as the pink ribbons tying the two of you together. “I love you too,” you say.

“Of course you do,” he replies, but he’s smiling too, and you think– no, you know– that everything is going to be alright.

marvel tag list: @mayfieldss, @rogueanschel, @mycosmicparadise, @ellobruv, @callsign-scully, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @amortensie, @23victoria, @watchreadfangirlrepeat, @gods-fools-heroes, @w1shes43, @deafsuperhero, @fadedver

[seo8inn]

[Gojo Satoru is beautiful. But he’s also real.]

In the summer of 2006, they are invincible in the way all seventeen-year-olds are invincible

They sit under the shade of one of Jujutsu high’s many trees. Suguru, belly flat on the ground, ankles wet with morning dew, nose buried in some yellowed pages of a book. Satoru, back splayed against the soft grass, palms defiantly pressed against the azure blue sky.

“Yo, Suguru,” Gojo interrupts only the sounds of the cicadas and the wind, squinting through his glasses,“what d’ya think they’ll make us do on our next mission?”

“Mm?” The brunette brushes his bangs out of his eyes, shutting the book, shifting his attention to the boy with the white hair and gorgeous blue eyes.

“Our next mission…ah, I don’t know. Probably something manageable…Grade 2 curses or something.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right.” Gojo shrugs, retuning to lie flat and stare at the sun, bright blue peeking through the gaps in his eyeglasses.

He’d do this sometimes. Think up some redundant question and ask it out of the blue, as if in between the longer moments of quiet, he felt the need to remind Suguru of his presence. (It’s not like Getou, or anyone, really, could have ever, in any lifetime, any cosmic trajectory, forgotten.)

Sometimes, Suguru wondered what he’d done in the past for this celestial-like being of a boy to be lying beside him now, in the sticky-hot summer air and wet grass, speaking to him about the little irrelevancies of their high-school lives. Wondered if this was just some cruel joke. Between his dreamy, crystal-cobalt blue eyes and the way the sun cast misty shadows of his white lashes on his undereyes, none of it felt real, all of it a sickly-sweet fever dream, balmy heat of summer and the boy who looked like snow.

[geddy-leesbian]

A Miracle Too Good To Be True (one-shot)

Leon exits the elevator, expecting to be confronted by yet another abomination that mutated itself beyond recognition. Instead he's greeted with a miraculous sight for sore eyes, an old friend that must be in Valdelobos for the same reasons Leon is.

But sometimes you have to be wary of a miracle too good to be true.

(This isn't a first draft but also isn't quite the final version either. Eventually I'll post a more complete version of it to AO3 that's more polished and has more of the Krauser fight on screen, as well as a longer conversation at the end. I'm just too excited to wait to post this 🤭)

-

Leon would be lying if he said he wasn't annoyed when the elevator doors opened and he saw that Luis wasn't alone this time. Even though she was small and huddled in a corner behind Luis, who was shaking the container with the suppressant and talking, Leon's eyes were drawn to the little girl immediately because she stuck out like a sore thumb. Leon may have been inclined to think she was Luis's daughter if it weren't for the fact she looked nothing like him. She looked nothing like anyone in Valdelobos. She was the first child, dead or alive, that Leon had seen during the mission. Her hair was a bright red, and her skin was pale; not the sickly pallor complexion some infected took on, but simply the healthy pale shade that tends to come packaged with red hair. Leon couldn't get a good look at her face, but he could see that her clothing was also unusual. She wore a bright yellow raincoat that appeared to be too big for her small body and a pair of pink sneakers. Nothing like the dreary old clothes he'd seen on Valdelobos's other residents.

Leon wasn't upset at the girl, nor was he annoyed by her specifically. It was just that an extra person meant another layer added to his already difficult mission. Get Ashley back from Saddler. Protect Luis so he can remove their plagas in his lab. (While Luis wasn't exactly a basket case, he's still not the greatest in fights.) And then, protect a child. A child Luis was tight-lipped about, only saying that her name was Lucia, they had to take her with them, and that she wasn't infected. Leon accepted it, but he still wasn't happy about the new wrench in his plans.

But much to Leon's surprise, Lucia's presence didn't interfere with anything. Half the time he forgot she was even with them. During quieter moments she either walked behind Luis, clinging to him like glue, or rode on his back. When there were fights that couldn't be avoided, she ran away from Luis and found a crevice or nook she could squeeze into, only coming out of hiding when the sounds of gunfire ceased and Luis called out that it was safe.

Luis wasn't entirely useless either. He didn't contribute much when they were just fighting ganados, but once they started running into invisible bugs, Luis was suddenly more useful than Leon. Leon heard buzzing and looked around, scrutinizing and shooting at rocks, shooting into the air repeatedly like a madman, and nothing happened. Luis heard buzzing and after just one or two shots from his Red9 a bug would suddenly become visible and then fall to the ground, dead.

Somehow they made it to the elevator miraculously unscathed. Lucia didn't have a scratch on her, and the only injuries Leon and Luis acquired were superficial and easily treated with herbs.

“Okay, Luis, time for you to finally give me some answers,” Leon demands after he's treated his wounds, reloaded his arsenal, and gotten the elevator moving. “Talk.”

“Lucia was an Umbrella test subject,” Now that Leon really has him against a wall, almost literally, Luis drops his frustrating habit of dodging questions and isn't beating around the bush at all. Lucia is standing in front of Luis, and he covers her ears with his hands as he starts to talk. Leon almost laughs. The kid's been watching them brutally fight their way through the mines, seeing god knows how many ‘people’ die in gory ways, and yet Luis is trying to shield her from a conversation. “She was an orphan Umbrella scooped up from foster care. The parasite implanted in her was a slow growing one, it would take years to fully mature. So it was decided she needed to be treated differently from other test subjects to ensure behavioral issues wouldn't be a long-term hindrance. I was her… handler, for lack of a better word. I pretended to be her adoptive father and built a relationship with her, that way she wouldn't resist procedures or tests if I reassured her. At least, it was supposed to be pretend. I was too soft for the job, I got attached and actually did love her as a daughter. I left Umbrella when her parasite was nearly mature and she would die if I didn't remove it soon. I managed to smuggle her out. I promised her she would never be anyone's experiment again. I promised that, once I removed the parasite implanted in her, there would be no more needles. I promised she would never be a test subject again. That's how I ended up working for Los Illuminados. It was a real deal with the devil type of situation. Saddler said that if I didn't work for him, she would be given to another team to use as a test subject. But as long as I worked hard, he wouldn't let anyone touch a hair on her head. What was I supposed to do? If I left the village with her, Umbrella would eventually find us and I would be murdered and Lucia would be at the mercy of evil scientists again. And if I stuck around here but refused to work for Los Illuminados, same thing. They would take her away from me by force and she'd become the newest test subject to torture. Working for Los Illuminados was the only way I could keep my promise.”

“I still don't get you though. Why are you helping us? You just want to keep your… daughter safe and get out of here, why not just do that now instead of staying longer to help out me and Ashley?”

“Because what I did was selfish. I worked for Los Illuminados just to save my daughter. I contributed to the deaths of hundreds to save a single life…” Luis pauses and looks away from Leon for a moment, trying to wrangle his thoughts. Suddenly he looks like shit– or maybe he's looked like shit this entire time and Leon just hasn't looked closely enough to notice until now– regardless, Luis looks weathered beyond his years. There's far more gray in his hair than a man of his age should have, there's dark circles under his eyes, his face is gaunt and ragged… It's a shocking contrast to the little girl in front of him, with her wavy red hair, pale skin with a healthy pink tint, and full cheeks. Leon is sure that at least some of Luis's worn appearance can be attributed to him regularly skipping meals to make sure his daughter never went to bed with an empty belly. “At the time, I felt justified. I never made any promises to keep the world safe, I made a promise to keep her safe. But still, maybe it was wrong. Maybe saving hundreds of lives would outweigh the wrongness of breaking one promise. But I can't turn back time, I have to live with what I have and haven't done, and helping you is my way of-”

Lucia suddenly slaps Luis's hands away from her ears.

“Monster! Outside the elevator.”

Leon looks at her skeptically, and Luis explains. “The thing about her being an Umbrella test subject? Yeah, she's got a sixth sense that senses BOW's. That's how I was able to shoot all those invisible bugs easy, she told me where to aim because she could see them,” Done addressing Leon, Luis kneels down to talk to Lucia. “What kind of monster?”

“Not the ganados or bugs, someone like… Méndez? Saddler? Not them, like them.”

“Great. I was starting to worry that we'd make it outside without having to fight one more mutating freak,” Leon quips, double checking that all of his weapons and herbs are ready to go. “You stay in here, I'll go check it out.”

“Major Krauser?” Luis hears from within the elevator. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Luis is aware of who Krauser is. He doesn't need to ask Lucia if the man Leon is talking to is the monster she's sensing, he knows that Krauser was host to a dominant plaga. What he doesn't know is how Leon knows this guy. And what Leon doesn't seem to know is that this guy is, in fact, the BOW Lucia warned him about.

“Long time no see, rookie.”

“What? Why are you here?” The dominant tone of Leon's voice is still disbelief, but there's also a hint of relief to it. “Are you on some other top secret operation to stop Los Illuminados that no one bothered to tell me about?”

“Were you really all by yourself in that elevator, pretty boy?” Pretty boy? Luis already had enough questions, he did not need to hear that. He dares to poke his head around to catch a glimpse of what's happening. Krauser slowly circles Leon, eyeing him up and down like he's a piece of meat. “I wanted to see my pretty boy again, but that was just a nice bonus. I came down here to recover some stolen goods, and kill the rat that took them. I thought he was with you.”

“You mean Luis?” Krauser's back is currently turned to the elevator and Leon glances over his shoulder at Luis who is gesturing wildly, making a knife slicing motion against his neck. Leon seems to pick up all of Luis's intended messages. “I killed him. Found out he was Umbrella, and you know what those assholes did to me and my friend, so I killed him.”

Luis feels a wave of relief wash over him. Leon understood Luis's message, and he's playing the situation perfectly.

“Just like that? You really snapped and killed him that easily? That doesn't sound like the rookie I knew,” Leon's hand inches towards his knife. “But maybe you have changed. How about you show me what you're made of now?”

Luis readies his pistol, and then watches helplessly as Leon and Krauser begin to fight. He wants to help Leon. It's the first time a fight has truly been neck and neck. Luis was used to watching in awe as Leon decisively won every fight, watching a fight with no clear winner made his stomach churn. Leon should be sweeping the floor with this guy like usual. He wants to step in to tip the scales in Leon's favor, but both of them are moving far too fast for Luis to get a clear shot. If they're still talking, Luis can't hear it over the clanging sounds of knives clashing.

He whispers to Lucia to turn around or go back into the corner of the elevator, but she doesn't listen and continues watching anxiously. Luis doesn't argue further, he can't risk drawing Krauser's attention to himself and Lucia. Right now Krauser believes that Luis is dead and Leon has no one to back him up, he's not going to throw that advantage away.

Eventually Luis gets an opportunity to act. Krauser has Leon on the ropes. He's dangling over the abyss, and will fall to his death when Krauser takes his knife to his hands that are desperately holding onto the edge of the platform. Luis springs out of his hiding spot, shooting a volley at Krauser's hand and hoping at least one hits its target.

Krauser isn't as surprised by the “surprise” attack as Luis hoped. A bullet does appear to graze his arm, but he doesn't even flinch, let alone drop his weapon.

“I knew I smelled a rat,” Luis at least accomplished his main goal, Krauser's attention is now focused on him, giving Leon time to climb back up onto the platform. “And I knew that rookie wouldn't have had it in him to just cut someone down.”

-

As the arm around his throat tightens and his vision begins to blur, Luis desperately prays to a god he doesn't believe in that Lucia followed his instructions and stayed in the elevator and wasn't watching all of this. But suddenly Krauser releases him from the chokehold and shoves him to the ground. Not prepared to do anything to break the fall, Luis groans in pain as his body hits the ground, and there's a crunching sound as his glasses are smashed between the ground and his face. But broken glasses are the least of his worries…

“You know what, rookie?” Krauser walks over and puts a foot on Luis's back, lest he start thinking there was even a chance he could get to his feet and flee. “Killing this rat was my job, but I think I'll let you do the honors instead. Come finish him off. Think about what his employer did to you and your friend. Think about what he did to us in the jungle. You remember. All those things Javier sent at us were from Umbrella Europe. Come get your revenge. Then you and I can settle our score on a more fitting battlefield I've been preparing just for you,” Leon takes a step towards Luis, and Krauser takes his foot off of Luis. “That's right. Come finish him, then I'll be waiting for you in our arena.”

Luis hopes that Leon is considering the offer. Neither of them are in great shape, Luis can't imagine a situation in which they both leave alive. The best he can hope for is that Leon comes and kills him, buying himself some time to patch himself up, get Lucia from the elevator, and then fight Krauser with better odds than he has in his current state.

Suddenly Luis hears and feels a heavy object hit the ground a couple feet away from him. Luis opens his eyes in time to see another object, a brick, come hurling towards Krauser, making contact with his shoulder. Leon and Krauser both look confused.

Lucia. It must have been. A normal girl of her age wouldn't have been able to throw a brick that far, but Lucia isn't a normal girl. Luis looks up at the platform where he left her, and up at the various crates, but doesn't see her. She must have hidden herself. Hopefully Krauser can't see her either.

Finally a third brick hits, and it's a bullseye, bonking the top of Krauser's head. Krauser's far too tough to be incapacitated by a single brick, but he is annoyed.

“I don't have time to play with some brick throwing coward who won't show his face!” Krauser yells. “I'll be waiting for you, Leon. Your little friends are welcome to come to the battlefield too, but they'll have to show their faces and play fair.”

The moment Krauser vanishes from sight, the only people who exist in Luis's world are him and Lucia. He ignores both his own injuries and Leon's as he scrambles to his feet and rushes to Lucia, who came out of her hiding spot. He fusses over her for a couple minutes. He knew that Krauser didn't touch her, but it didn't stop the paranoia. Then he heaps the praise on her for her quick thinking and bravery. Once he's satisfied that Lucia is okay, he finally turns his attention to the slumped over Leon, kneeling on the ground next to him. 

“You better not be dying on me. I watched you walk off a chainsaw injury, a few stab wounds aren't going to keep you down,” Luis says, looking over Leon and then readying some supplies to tend to his wounds. Leon's eyes flutter open and he, for reasons he will choose to believe are related entirely to some blood loss clouding his mind and the emotional impact of seeing Krauser again, finds himself looking up at Luis and leaning up to kiss him. Luis gently pulls away and tries to focus on the wound on his shoulder, the rejection making Leon pout. “We can do that again when you're not at risk of bleeding out, okay?”

Leon mumbles out a yes and lets Luis focus on tending his wounds, the worst of them being stitched up by surprisingly delicate hands, the rest getting a can of first-aid spray. Then he gets Leon to eat a few herbs. It's only when he's done that he realizes he had an audience, Lucia sat cross legged with a concerned expression a couple feet away.

“Is he okay?”

“He will be, princess,” Luis reassures with a pat on the head. “He just needs a bit of rest.”

“Yeah, I'll be fine,” Leon says, already a bit perked up from the herbs. “Thanks to you and those bricks. Me and your dad would have been toast if you hadn't stepped in.”

Lucia beams at the praise and scoots over, resting her head on Leon's uninjured shoulder. “We can rest here. There's no more monsters.”

Luis is shocked by her behavior, not only talking to someone but trying to cuddle. Due to her having spent the majority of her life in an Umbrella laboratory or Valdelobos, she was scared of people. Méndez had tried talking to her when they first came back to the village, before he was infected, but she wouldn't say a word to him and would try to hide behind Luis. Luis was the only person she wasn't scared of. But even though he wants to encourage this breakthrough, he doesn't want her to pester Leon. Before Luis tells Lucia to give Leon space, Leon gently pushes her head off his shoulder, but only temporarily– he moves his arm to wrap it around the back of the girl's body and then leans his head against hers. She's exhausted and can barely keep her eyes open. Luis makes himself comfortable on the other side of her and idly runs his fingers through her hair.

“Can you promise me something?” Luis asks after Lucia eventually dozes off.

“Depends.”

“If something happens to me, don't leave Lucia behind. I know you already have a lot on your shoulders without a kid to look after, but-”

“That's a promise I can make. It's not like she's deadweight, she saved our lives. We would have walked right into an ambush and Krauser would have killed us if it weren't for her powers. He would have killed both of us if she hadn't started throwing those bricks. She's a good kid.”

“What about me, Leon? Am I a good man? Despite the shitty life I've led?”

“If you're a shitty person, so am I. I'm not a government agent because I want to be. I was in Raccoon City that day,” Leon doesn't need to say the date, Luis is smart enough to know. “I found a little girl there. She was implanted with G. I got her a vaccine, we got out of the city just in time. Then the government came and ‘rescued’ us. We were taken into custody. They told me Sherry was valuable because of her infection. They had scientists itching to experiment on her. But I was valuable too, surviving Raccoon City showed I had a lot of potential. They told me that if I worked for them, they wouldn't experiment on Sherry. So I did, even though I had learned the government aren't the good guys. I've killed people who hadn't done anything wrong because the government told me to. I've been on missions with an unnecessarily high amount of civilian casualty because the government didn't care enough to minimize who was caught in the crossfire. Every time I rescue someone, I wonder if I'm actually rescuing them or if it's like when I was rescued and I'm just taking them from one nightmare to another. But I just keep following my orders, because Sherry will get hurt if I don't. A lot of people are dead or fucked up because their lives meant less to me than Sherry's life.”

“Shit,” Luis's eyes start tearing up. “I haven't even thought about what the hell I'm going to do when we make it out of here. What will happen to her.”

“I won't let the government get their claws into her, I promise. Don't know if you've heard of the BSAA or TerraSave, but they're organizations who deal with bioterrorism and victims, and aren't following the US government's orders. I've got friends in both. I'll write down contact information for you. You'll have to take Lucia and run before the helicopter comes to get me and Ashley to make sure you're not on the government's radar.”

“That's a disappointment-” Luis cuts himself off, wanting to reword his statement. “No, that doesn't sound right. It's a relief there's help and hope for a safe future for Lucia and I. But it's disappointing that you're not in that future. I wanted more opportunities to kiss you when we're not filthy and injured.”

“This isn't something I can promise, but maybe I'll try and take a look at my situation again and see if there's any way I can get out without putting Sherry in danger. If I'm ever at a point where it's safe, I'll find you again.”

[boggie-things]

At five years old, Robin Buckley says her favorite color is pink when asked by her kindergarten teacher.

It seems like the right answer, it's what all the other girls say (except for a few who say purple, but Robin thinks of the flowers at her grandma's funeral earlier that year that were a sickly shade a mauve), so it must be hers as well.

She doesn't mind wearing it, but she thinks it's bright, easy to call attention to. She gets scolded in second grade by Tammy Thompson when she says it's really just a shade of red, after that she decides she doesn't like it as much anymore.

In fourth grade she says it's green when her mom asks for a color to paint her room. It's the color of outside and Robin likes to play there.

Her favorite shoes are forest green and she sits in the green section at lunch with her best friend Barabra Holland. It's a good fit.

But in sixth grade Tommy Hagan tells her it's a boy color and if she likes it then she's a boy. And so Robin changes it again. This time it's yellow.

Yellow is a safe color, neither gender seems to claim it and it's the shade of the sheets on her bed where she spends most of her time now that Barbara seems to prefer hanging out with Nancy Wheeler.

Yellow is the color of the stray cat that she feeds eyes and the shade of the lamplight she likes to read under at night.

She changes it to red in tenth grade when she hears Tammy Thompson say she likes it (even though she got mad at Robin for her earlier suggestion of pink being a light shade of it), and she really thinks it's the right one too.

It's the color of her beloved converse and the shade of the only makeup she owns, the scarlet lipstick her aunt got her for her fifteenth birthday.

It's a color of her Scoops uniform and the dry erase marker she uses to mark down Steve Harrington’s numerous fails at flirting.

It's the color of blood staining her shirt and dripping from Steve's face on the Fourth of July, 1985. The color of fireworks being thrown at a monster made up of red flesh and the color of the ambulance lights that flash as she sits in it.

After that she doesn't have a favorite color. It changes whenever someone new asks, alternating between the ones of her past.

It's green to Steve and pink to the mother renting a movie for her daughter. Yellow for Dustin and for a project in English class.

It's never red though.

But then 1986 rolls around and it's suddenly blue. The color of the sky and her favorite shirt is navy. The color of a denim jacket and the waters of Lovers Lake.

The color of Nancy Wheeler’s eyes looking at her in the library. Cerulean in the sun and cobalt as they trek through hell.

Bright azure when reflecting fire and the sparks of flying bullets. Soft maya blue under hospital lights.

They're shining admiral when they meet hers outside the Wheeler house two weeks after it all. Her tears match the rain when they kiss. Baby blue when they finally part.

It's blue when Nancy asks as they lay together in their apartment just outside of Boston. She jokes it's for the ocean that they had visited that summer, but later she tells her it's for her eyes.

It's blue like the ring she proposes with, cheap but full of meaning. Blue like the lilies of the Nile and bellflowers of Nancy's bouquet she tosses in the air.

Sapphire like their daughter's name and the chair Robin sits in when she reads to her. The color of her cookie monster cake for her first birthday and the rims of Nancy's reading glasses.

Blue like the dress she's buried in.

Blue like the flowers on their side by side graves.

[haloshornsinkstains]

Learn to Share

This took me an embarassingly long time to write, but I'm trying to get back into the swing of things (and I might try to write a part 2 to this as well).

One Piece Live Action - (Future) Mihawk x F!Reader x Shanks

“S’whats a pretty girl like you doin’ here ‘lone?”

You breathed out slowly through your nose, fingers tightening on the glass in your hand. This was the third one tonight. You’d come here to get away from annoying men, yet here you were attracting them like flies to honey. As if your frankly impressive resting bitch face wasn’t enough to tell people not to bother you.

“I’m here for peace, and you happen to be ruining it.” You grit out, casting a quick sideways glance at the man.

“Ah, you don’t wanna be here ‘lone surely, pretty gal like you.” He leant in closer, the stink of his breath wafting into your face. “Come w’me an’ I’ll show you a real good time.”

You swore under your breath, turning to face the man and flicking your coat open slightly to flash your daggers. “Like I said, you’re ruining my peace. You can leave now, or I can make you.”

Apparently the alcohol had really dulled all of the man’s brain cells because he just laughed, leaning further towards you, gaze planted firmly on your chest. “Don’ be like that pretty, I’ll relieve you tension yeah?”

“I believe the lady said no.”

Both of you turned to the stranger, you to chastise him when you had that handled, the drunkard apparently to chase the stranger off, but neither of you could find words when those piercing yellow eyes came into view. You watched from the corner of your eyes as the drunk spluttered apologies, his face going a sickly shade of white as he scampered away. Arching one eyebrow at the stranger you dipped your head slightly in thanks. He was striking, pale skin and the most intense gaze you’d ever seen, all framed by sharp black hair.

“Let me buy you a drink… as thanks.”

The words left your mouth before your brain could engage and you could barely hide your mortification at your own actions.

“No need for thanks. Though… I suppose a drink couldn’t hurt.”

The stranger settled into the recently vacated seat and you nodded towards the bartender for two more drinks.

Before long two glasses of decent rum were set onto the counter in front of you. Quietly you thanked the bartender, before lifting the glass in a silent toast to your new companion. Thankfully he said nothing in return, only dipped his head and lifted the glass to his lips. Smiling to yourself you settled for a quiet drink, hopeful that the presence of this stranger would deter most of the idiots from bothering you.

It almost worked, but unfortunately you didn’t think there was any power on the seas that could stop your captain from bothering you.

“Ehh, there you are princess! You left the party without telling anyone!”

You groaned, steadfastly ignoring the man as he came up behind you and slung his arm around your shoulder, evidently completely ignoring the man sat beside you. You cast a quick glance sideways to check that he was, in fact, still sat there, and sighed.

“I wanted a quiet drink. Emphasis on the quiet.”

“Hey, we’re great company. Besides you should have told- Hawk Eyes! What are you doing with my lookout?!”

“Just a quiet drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at him before looking back at your captain. “It was a quiet drink, so if you’d be so kind… y’know, while I ask how the hell you know each other.”

“Oh, Hawk Eyes and I go way back.” Your captain, ignoring your request, settled down on the stool at your other side, resting his shoulder against yours.

“This wasn’t exactly what I meant Captain,” you grumbled half-heartedly, “I came here to escape the crew.”

“Ah, gorgeous, I’m the Captain not the crew. And we both know you don’t really want to escape me.”

The man on your other side, Hawk Eyes apparently, hummed and gestured for more drinks, “if you’re part of his crew then you know there’s no getting rid of him. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

You sigh, defeated, and nod slowly. “Point taken. How do you know each other anyway?”

“We were rivals!” 

Your jaw went slack, eyes darting between your Captain and the mysterious stranger. “I’m sorry, you were what?!”

“Oh yeah, old Hawk Eyes used to hunt me down for fights all the time!” 

“You just happened to be an interesting opponent.”

You grabbed the drink settled in front of you and downed half of it in one swallow. “Nope, I refuse to believe that you and Hawk Eyes here were rivals. One of you is clearly too good for that.”

“Mihawk. I prefer to be addressed by name, and I believe you have more manners than Shanks.”

Swiftly you drained the second half of your glass. “I think I should get some air.”

Before you could even rise to your feet you felt the arm clamp down around your shoulders, pushing you back down. For a drunk man with only one arm Shanks was much stronger than most gave him credit for, including you.

“Oh come on gorgeous, don’t you want to hear stories of my amazing adventures?”

To your surprise you found yourself enjoying the tales they told you, mostly Shanks though Mihawk chipped in occasionally. A few more drinks and you began to forget why you’d wanted to leave, the shock of the greatest swordsman in the world sitting beside you long gone. You leant against the bar, Shanks’ arm still around your shoulders, the three of you pressed much closer together than when you’d first started.

“So you two are like… best friends or something?”

“Good Lord no.” Mihawk protested, while Shanks laughed loudly down your ear.

“Close enough Princess.”

You hummed, nodding your head. “I can see it, you work well together.”

Slowly you started to rise from your stool, only for Shanks to push you back down.

“And where are you going now Princess?”

Frowning you pointed towards the back of the bar, “powder my nose, I’ll be right back.”

Reluctantly he let you stand, both men watching protectively as you made your way to the washrooms in the back of the bar.

“She’s quite something hmm?”

Shanks huffed, finally pulling his attention from the direction you’d left to narrow his eyes at his old friend. “She’s my lookout, don’t go stealing her for your crew.”

“I don’t need a crew, but you could learn some lessons about sharing.”

Shanks eyes sparkled and he smiled. “Now that, I can get behind.”

[jaxkpsok183]

Caden and Maddie were sleeping, her head on his chest. She had had a long and busy day, the first day at her new job, and had crashed almost immediately upon returning to the apartment. Caden woke up, a slightly uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Careful not to wake Maddie, he gingerly placed his palm flat on his stomach, finding it slightly rounded. Him and his friends had gotten sushi for lunch, and he decided it must be indigestion. The food seemed to be stuck in his middle, making it clear that it wasn’t going anywhere. Caden felt heat creep up his neck as he stared at the ceiling. He really didn’t want to disturb Maddie, and hoped that he wouldn’t need to get sick. A cramp shot through his abdomen, and he felt his stomach muscles tense under his palm. He took a few deep breaths as his face grew a shade paler and a thin layer of sweat began to form on the back of his neck. He began to rub small circles on his belly, willing the food to move along. His stomach contracted, letting out a quiet whine as it tried desperately to digest the mess inside of him. He didn’t feel nauseous yet, and he knew going to the bathroom now would be no use, so he tried to let Maddie rest some more. He discomfort was growing by the minute, though, and he could feel his shirt clinging to his back. He hated this in-between stage, where he couldn’t throw up but couldn’t be comfortable. His stomach had grown more bloated, and he cradled it as he tipped his head back and quietly groaned, grimacing, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He attempted to shift himself without disturbing Maddie, and immediately wished he hadn’t when his gut let out a low gurgle and a second cramp shot through his stomach. He gasped slightly at the feeling, clutching his middle. He began breathing heavily, and Maddie’s head on his chest seemed to grow ten times heavier and feel suffocating. His stomach was now bloated to the max, and through the taught skin he felt the moment the churning began and a light wave of nausea washed over him. Under his palm, he felt the contents of his stomach pushing against his skin, could feel each convulsion of his stomach. He leaned his head back, panting quietly as his nausea intensified. There was no mistaking it now, he was going to need to get up soon. But in the moment moving from his current position was not an option, so he stayed where he was. His face grew paler and took on a strange shade, a mixture of gray, green, and yellow. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and a few of his dark curls clung to it. He forced up a small, sickly, closed-mouth burp, and grimaced at the taste of fish. His throat bobbed dangerously as he swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. He let up another burp, moaning quietly after. He did this a few times, before his stomach gurgled as he let up a particularly wet burp, bringing up some acid as a fishy taste splashed the back of his throat. The revolting taste of it was more than enough to make his stomach lurch, and he sat up, throwing Maddie off him as he gagged violently into his hands.

“Caden, what the hell-“

He was panting, hunched over his lap, with both arms tightly hugging his abdomen and his fingers digging into his sides. His whole body moved with the force of his rapid, panicked breaths, and Maddie crawled to sit in front of him.

“Baby, what’s going on?”

She pushed his dark, messy hair back and cradled his waxy face. He swallowed thickly before slowly answering.

“Maddie, my stomach- I think there was something bad in my lunch- everything is churning and I feel so sick.” He was telling the truth, his stomach was now churning the food inside of him like a washing machine, and his mouth was pooling with thick, hot saliva that was becoming increasingly hard to swallow. His eyes rolled back as he violently retched into his lap. 

“C’mon baby, let’s get you to the bathroom,” Maddie said, but there was no time for that. His eyes glazed over and his jaw went slack, and Maddie lept off the bed and scrambled to grab the small trash can on the other end of the room. His bloated stomach contracted into itself and Caden clapped a hand over his mouth, trying desperately to hold it in, but the heave sent spurts of vomit shooting from between his fingers and onto the comforter. Vomit filled his mouth, and before Maddie could make it back to him with the can, his stomach sent more vomit shooting up his throat and he was forced to remove his hand, letting a pool of vomit splatter into his lap. Before he knew what was happening, Maddie had shoved the can into his arms and was forcing him to stand and walk to the bathroom. The whole time, he was coughing and spluttering into the can, his stomach trying desperately to bring something more up but simply failing. His stomach muscles never seemed to relax, constantly squeezing tighter and tighter, trying to force more up without giving him a chance to breathe. A string of vomit dangled from his lips. Finally, he was able to gasp for air as he stumbled and collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet. He gripped the sides of the bowl, making a horrible gurgling sound as more vomit gushed out of him. His stomach muscles contracted and his shoulder muscles spasmed and pressed together as he heaved again and again. With the turmoil already in his stomach, the sight of the vomit in the toilet was enough to set him off again. Tears streamed down his face as he continued to retch, but brought up nothing but a small amount of bile. 

“C’mon baby, your stomach’s empty,” Maddie tried to get him to relax, but he continued to pant and gag. 

“It won’t- hUrgH- stop” he heaved, his fingers turning white from gripping the toilet. 

“Shh, relax, everything will be okay baby.” She rubbed small circles on his back and ran her fingers through his hair, until he was finally able to collapse into her. His abs and shoulders ached after being tense for so long, and he was so exhausted that he could have fallen asleep then and there. Reading his mind, Maddie flushed the toilet and helped him onto the couch so she could wash the bedsheets. She left to get a glass of water, and he was already asleep when she returned.

[a-whispering-echo]

very VERY old fic

here - im gonna do this in a few sections, but this is a fic i wrote YEARS ago, and never posted, because i VERY quickly improved and git grossed out by it, but ive JUST found the document again, and figured id chuck em here to do SOMETHING with them i guess?

The air inside Moonlit Halls Mental Hospital hung heavy with despair. Fluorescent lights infrequently flicker, casting eerie shadows on the cracked linoleum floor.

The once sterile white walls had turned a sickly shade of yellow, stained by years of neglect and the suffering that permeated every corner. The pungent scent of antiseptic did nothing to hide the overall lingering stench of decay, scaring anyone it held within its grip. 

The corridors echoed with both whispers and screams of tormented souls, inescapable, much like the building itself. Scratches littered the surface of forlorn cells - futile and desperate attempts of those trapped within to leave their mark on a world that had forsaken them.

In purgatory, time has no meaning. Day melds into the night, as the line between reality and delusion blurred. Tortured cries of the patients were almost in tune with the haunting echoes of their own minds; a composed maelstrom of madness. 

The few patients who had families left had long since given up hope of seeing them again. 

It was a horrible place, and it was run by even worse people. 

 The staff members had long lost their compassion and empathy a long time ago, leaving only cold callously and cruelty behind. Their eyes, once filled with hope and a desire to heal, now held a threatening gleam. Their smiles, twisted and devoid of warmth, were the only outward sign of the animosity that sat behind their masks of professionalism.

And the few patients who had families who cared for them left had long since given up hope of seeing them again, their queries met with indifference or threats if they dare voice concerns or question the facility's practices.

After all, the doctor knows best for you. 

You can forget about getting the right medication, as the staff are much more interested in maintaining control than in providing genuine care. The cycle of medication only ever worsens their state when they end up overmedicated one moment, and under-medicated the next. 

Their fragile minds that once sought solace shattered by the very people who had promised to help. 

Well, Killer had always hated promises anyway. 

_

Killer stood in the dimly lit hallway, clutching the small bag of belongings that they had managed to grab before being taken in tightly in their hands. New to this particular institution, he hoped this one would be different from all the others. Just by looking at the place, that hope sank like a lead balloon. As a nurse led them down the sallow winding hallways to their new assigned room, Killer's exposed soul pounded with a mix of apprehension and annoyed defiance.

Shit, he really hoped the soul thing wouldn't be a problem here.

But maybe that was the least of their worries. 

Turning their head, empty eye sockets looked up at the apathetic nurse dragging them down the hallway, "Sooooo... Do I have roomies?" 

The nurse gave a quick glance back, and their eyes narrowed in irritation. "Yes, you do," came the curt reply. "But I suggest you mind your manners and keep to yourself. We wouldn't want any trouble, would we?"

Killer only scoffed, "Trouble follows me at every turn."

Rolling their eyes, the nurse carried on.

Upon reaching a withered door the nurse unlocked it, revealing a small space dimly illuminated by a flickering bulb. The room was practically empty, with two sets of bunk beds and one ratty mattress on the floor, a worn-out desk with no chair in sight, and covered head to toe in filth. 

Stepping inside, Killer takes note of the four others in the room, (all skeletons, maybe that's why he's here,) as his eye sockets lock onto a figure on the bed. Tired red and blue eyelights and a haunted expression stared back underneath their owner's hood, as their body tensed in displeasure. 

"Great," The male voice muttered, laced with sarcasm. "Another fuckup to add to this delightful mix."

Killer raised a brow bone, slightly amused by the initial hostility. "Well, nice to meet you too! 

"Dust, play nice." Spoke another skeleton voice tinged with annoyance, this one so tall Killer only came up to his chest, "Ignore him, he's having a bad day, I'm Horror." A polite smile splits his face. 

Killers' attention shifted to a third individual, a skeleton with a scar on their zygomatic bone standing by the window, seemingly lost in their own thoughts. Their weary posture and wishful gaze spoke of quiet strength. 

"And who might you be, window dweller?"

"Cross, I guess," His voice barely a whisper, "Nice to meet you...?" he trailed off like he was asking a question. 

The last person in the room, who had been quietly observing them from the corner of the room, raised a browbone as they stepped forwards and piped up, "Well, isn't this an interesting mix of personalities? I'm Nightmare. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." They seemed to be a hybrid, a mix between a skeleton, and some kind of dark slime creature, and they held an air of darkness like they had dark secrets bubbling under the surface. 

Top dog, spoke the voice from behind his skull.

"Woof Woof." Killer giggled.

"Who are you talking to?"

Killer chuckled under their breath, brushing off the question. "Just my ever-entertaining internal dialogue. Keeps me company." They offered a mischievous smile, though their eye sockets betrayed their slight embarrassment at the open reply. 

The room fell into an awkward silence as the nurse left the room with a scoff of disgust. Killer could feel the tension in the air, a mix of curiosity, weariness, and guardedness, and yet it seemed almost calmer with them gone. 

Dust sighed heavily and broke the silence, "Well, looks like we're all stuck here together," he muttered, his voice laced with resignation. "Might as well make the best of it." 

Deciding to break the ice, Killer speaks up, a mischievous smile spread across their face. "Well, Dusty, seems like we're going to be roommates in this delightful place. I hope you don't snore too loudly!"

Dust's expression softened, his guarded demeanour slipping down into a small grin. "You'll have to bear with my snoring, I'm afraid. But hey, it might help drown out everyone else's screams."

Nightmare smirked, leaning against the wall. "Ah, the screams. The sweet symphony of our beloved asylum. It's music to my ears," they said, their voice dripping with dark humour.

Horror let out a nervous chuckle, eyeing Nightmare warily. "Well, I'm glad someone here appreciates the ambience. Personally, I could do without the screams."

Cross, who had been silently observing the interaction, finally spoke up in his soft-spoken manner. "I...I don't like the screams either. They remind me...of things I'd rather forget."

"...Do you wanna talk about it?"

Cross hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting to the floor as he shuffled his feet. "I...I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it yet," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "But maybe...someday."

Horror smiled, "No pressure, We're here whenever you're ready."

Killer nodded in agreement, "Yeah, take your time, Crossy. We're all in this together now."

"Does that make us friends?" 

Cross looked up, his eyelights reflecting a glimmer of hope. "Friends? Yeah, I think I'd like that," he replied softly.

Nightmare grinned mischievously, their eyelight gleaming with intrigue. "Friends, huh? Well, I suppose it's always good to have a few allies in a war."

Dust's lips curled into a genuine smile, "Friends it is then. We'll stick together and make it through this place."

Killer chuckled, "Well then friends, let's get settled in."

-

In the days that followed their initial meeting, the group treaded cautiously around each other, their interactions filled with a delicate mix of curiosity and apprehension. They were aware that their shared experiences within Moonlit Halls Mental Hospital made them survivors of the same kind, but the layers of their individual struggles kept them guarded, each convinced to keep to themselves about it. 

But one evening, gathered in the dimly lit common room, Horror broke the silence with a deep breath, his voice hesitant but firm "I think it's time we share a bit more about ourselves. Our diagnoses, our struggles, whatever. We need to understand each other better."

Nightmare, leaning against the wall, interjected with a detached air. "I was brought here for my manipulative tendencies. They couldn't handle someone who knew how to play the game better than they did," they explained, their tone void of remorse. 

Raising a brow bone in amusement, their curiosity piqued, Killer questioned, "So, you're a master manipulator, huh? Should we be worried?"

 "You should always be cautious. But worry? No, my dear. I am not here to manipulate you. I am here to unravel the mysteries that bind us. I want to manipulate them." Their eyelights gleamed with an enigmatic spark as they smirked.

 Horror spoke of his struggles with depression and his eating disorder, sharing how he had fought to maintain his strength amidst the darkness that ever threatened to consume him.

 Dust reluctantly divulged his diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder, revealing the pain of his hallucinations and the constant fight to distinguish reality from illusion. 

Cross muttered about his anxiety disorder, the paralysing fear that often held him captive within his own mind. 

And Killer, keeping their DID hidden for now, nonchalantly spoke about their struggles with anger and impulse control. How their BPD made life a mountain out of a molehill.

As the night wore on, a fragile trust began to form between the group of misfits, as they realised that they were not alone in their battles. And in this sharing, the shallow bond they formed grew stronger.

However, the peace and newfound companionship was to be shattered by an unexpected confrontation between Dust and Nightmare.

Skulking out of the shadows, Nightmare approached Dust, their presence almost suffocating. Dust looked up, unease creeping into his features as Nightmare invaded his personal space, their faces mere inches apart as he traces a fingertip over Dust jaw line. A chill ran down Dust's spine as Nightmare's voice, laced with an unsettling calmness, pierced through the air.

"You know, Dust," Nightmare began, their voice low and taunting. "I've been observing you closely, and I can't help but wonder... How do you distinguish between reality and your hallucinations? How do you know what's real and what is merely... a figment of your imagination?"

Dust's soul pounded in his chest, fear flooding his senses. He tried to pull away, to escape the suffocating presence of Nightmare, but their grip on his chin tightened, their gaze locking onto his with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine.

Nightmare's voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "And what about your brother? The one you see, the one who talks to you. Has he ever told you to finish off the rest of your family? Do what he couldn't finish? After all, there's only one left, isn't there?"

"Dust, come with me," Horror spoke, his voice firm but comforting. "You don't need to listen to this."

But Dust, lost in the clutches of his own torment, pushed Horror away, his eyelights fixed on Nightmare. Anger burned within him, a mixture of fear and defiance. "You don't know anything," he spat, his voice shaking. "You don't understand what it's like, what I go through everyday. Leave me alone!"

Nightmare's expression twisted into a sinister smile, their eyelight glimmering with amusement. "Oh, but I do understand, Dust. I understand more than you realise. The question is, can you handle the truth?"

Horror, his voice gentle yet determined, tried once more to break through Dust's spiralling thoughts. "Dusty, please. Let's get out of 'ere. You don't 'ave to face this alone."

But Dust, overwhelmed by his own inner demons, pushed everyone away, his trembling voice filled with defiance. "Just go, all of you! Leave me be!"

As Dust stormed away, his footsteps echoing through the dimly lit hallway, Horror watched him with a heavy soul. He wanted desperately to run after him, tell him that everything will be alright, but he knew that pushing Dust any further now is just going to make matters worse.

Turning to face the rest of the group, Horror's expression was filled with concern, "Give 'im some space, let 'im cool off, we'll talk to 'im later." 

At Killer's "Uh huh," and Cross's nod, Nightmare scoffed, "He knows what I said was the truth," they muttered, their voice tinged with frustration. "He needs to face it."

Horror's eyelight narrowed as he locked gazes with Nightmare. "You may be right about 'im needing to confront 'is fears, but you can't force 'im into it,” he said firmly. "We're here to support 'im, to help 'im through this, not to exploit 'is vulnerabilities."

Nightmare's expression shifted, a flicker of doubt crossing their features before they regained their usual air of indifference. "Fine," they replied, their voice laced with annoyance. "If you insist on coddling him, be my guest. But don't come crying to me when he falls deeper into his delusions."

As Nightmare stalked off, their steps filled with frustration, Horror let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. 'What a great first week.'

Later that evening, when the rest of the group had retired to their beds, Horror found himself sitting alone in the common room, flicking through an old dog-eared book he had stolen from a group therapy room. The book was about some kind of new type of therapy, supposed to help anxious people speak their thoughts easier. It sounded like bullshit to him. 

It was then that Nightmare appeared, their usual composed demeanour replaced with smothered vulnerability. They approached Horror cautiously, their voice hesitant yet filled with a desperate plea. "Horror, may I... can I talk to you?"

Horror looked up, surprise evident in his eyelight. He had expected Nightmare to maintain their distance, to retreat back into the shadows. But the vulnerability in their voice struck a chord within him, and he nodded, his voice gentle. "'Corse, Nightmare. What's on your mind?"

Nightmare hesitated for a moment, their eyelight avoiding Horror's gaze. "I... I don't understand how to...care," they admitted, their voice barely above a whisper. "I've spent so long detached,  observing others.. that genuine compassion eludes me. But... you care for Dust, and the way you all care for each other, it's... foreign to me. I want to understand, to learn how to care like you do."

Horror set the book aside, his attention fully on Nightmare. 

He had seen the facade Nightmare presented to the world, the carefully constructed mask of indifference, and now, as Nightmare stood before him, vulnerable and searching for answers, he realised that there was more to him than what had previously met the eye.

Horror watched Nightmare closely, their inner tempest palpable in the way they shifted their weight and avoided his gaze. His voice softened as he spoke, "Empathy isn't something you can learn just like that, but the fact you want to change says everyt'ing. But you still don't want to let go of the mask, so we'll start simple - right now, in this moment, what are you feeling?

After a brief moment of hesitation, Nightmare's voice trembled as they admitted, "I... I don't know what I'm feeling right now. It's all so... confusing. I've spent so long using my manipulations like a shield - I don't know who I am without them. It's like... I'm not even a person - just a collection of masks and schemes."

"Nightmare," he began gently, his voice soothing, "you're more than just the masks you wear.  Compassion is not an easy journey, but it's one worth taking."

He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts before continuing, "Caring for others isn't about grand gestures or putting on a show. It's about being there, listening, and offering support if they want it. Even if all you can do is listen to their questions when asked - like this."

They listened intently, their gaze slowly lifting to meet Horror's eyelight. "But what if I do not have the answers? What if I am not capable of giving them what they need?" their voice filled with uncertainty.

Horror's voice held gentle reassurances as he shook his head and replied, "None of us have all the answers, Nightmare. We're all just trying to figure things out as we go along. Sometimes, all someone needs is a shoulder to cry on."

Nightmare's brows furrowed as they contemplated Horror's words . "I've always been the one who observes, an outsider, looking through a window at others outside," they admitted, face full of longing. "But watching you all... I see the strength in your connection, you support one another. I want that. I want to be a part of something real." 

Smiling warmly, Horror solaced -  his voice filled with genuine encouragement: "You already are a part of something real, Nightmare. You're a part of us, and we're 'ere for you."

-

On a quiet evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in dappled hues of pink and gold, casting warm rays of light over the figure by the window, Cross sat alone in a secluded corner of their room - on the ledge of the window the showed the courtyard, the small foliage and trees swaying in the wind - a taste of freedom he could not achieve from inside the walls. He clutched a worn-out journal in his hands, its dogeared and ripped pages filled with sketches and the scribbled words of his innermost thoughts.

Unbeknownst to him, Nightmare observed from a distance, their curiosity piqued by the sight of Cross in such a vulnerable state. Ready to play his usual games, he started to stride over, before he hesitated. Horror's words from their previous conversation echoed in their mind. "Listen, offer support if prompted."

This was the perfect time to try it out. 

As they got closer, they noticed Cross mumbling to himself in Spanish, his words a soft, soothing melody that seemed to calm the turbulence within him.

Walking over to where Cross was sitting with a newfound determination, Nightmare cleared their throat as they greeted him in Spanish, "Hola, Cross. ¿Te importa si me siento contigo?" (Hello, Cross. Do you mind if I sit with you?)

Cross looked up, surprise flickering in his eyelights at the sound of his native language. A hint of a smile touched his lips as he nodded, "No, adelante. Siéntate." (No, go ahead. Sit.)

Taking a seat beside Cross, Nightmare could feel the nervousness bubbling beneath their typical aloof facade. But Horror's words kept replaying and they were determined to forge a connection with Cross, to break free from the walls they had built around themselves. They didn't want to be like this anymore.

"¿Te gusta el jardín afuera? He notado que a veces te sientas junto a la ventana," (Do you like the garden outside? I've noticed you sometimes sit by the window,) They asked, trying to break the ice with a simple observation.

Cross’ eyelights softened, a glimmer of surprise at Nightmare's attempt to engage him. "Sí, me gusta el jardín. Me ayuda a relajarme y despejar mi mente," (Yes, I like the garden. It helps me relax and clear my mind,) he replied, his voice hesitant and wary at the psychopath's confrontation.

Nightmare nodded, trying to maintain the conversation. "Entiendo. La naturaleza puede ser terapéutica, ¿verdad?" (I understand. Nature can be therapeutic, right?)

Cross seemed to relax just a bit more, a small smile gracing his face. "Sí, es como una pequeña escapatoria en medio de todo esto," (Yes, it's like a little escape amidst all of this,) he admitted, his voice softening.

And in that moment of shared understanding, the walls between Cross and Nightmare began to crumble. They found solace in the familiarity of their native language, speaking freely in a way they couldn't in English. As time ticked on, the sunset turned to dusk, as its warm shades turned to sympathetic  shades of indigo and mauve. 

In the time of quiet revelations, Cross continued "Siento que no encajo aquí," he admitted softly, his gaze cast downwards. "Es como si todos fueran piezas de un rompecabezas que no encajo."(I feel like I don't belong here. It's like everyone else is pieces of a puzzle, and I don't fit.)

Nightmare's eyelight softened, a newfound empathy shining through their usual veneer of detachment. "Entiendo cómo te sientes," they replied, their voice gentle. "A veces, también me siento así." (I understand how you feel, sometimes, I feel that way too.") 

"...You know, sometimes it feels like the world is just too loud, too overwhelming," Cross confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of noise, and no one else seems to understand."

Nightmare nodded, their expression empathetic. "I know that feeling all too well," they admitted. "For me, it's not just the noise; it's the emotions of others, the weight of their expectations. It's suffocating."

"It's hard to feel like a stranger in your own mind, isn't it?"

And as the night wore on, they found comfort in the safety of the shared secret language, a safe haven where they could express their deepest fears and struggles without the fear of judgement. Their strings of fate entwined inside the chaotic world of Moonlit Halls.

(ENDING THIS PART HERE, no clue why the FUCK i did the spanish part; i dont SPEAK spanish, nor do i know ANY of the language, with im sure is obvious based on my google translate spanish there, but yk, im sure it'll give someone a giggle at how wrong it is, so-)