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d1stalker · 10 months ago

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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.”

— —

—

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!

#deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #hugh jackman #logan x reader #x men #logan howlett imagine #deadpool movie #logan howlett fic #james logan howlett #e2l #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #hugh jackman smut #logan howlett x you

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 2 months ago

Note

ok so fic idea with like a yan vampire trying to get reader to invite him into her home 😚

Yandere Vampire x Reader

The movie flickers quietly in the dim of your living room. You’re not really watching it. Some indie horror flick you picked up because the cover looked edgy and weird enough to kill an hour or two. There’s a bowl of popcorn half-forgotten beside you, its buttery scent growing stale. The blinds are shut, the lights low, and the only glow in the room comes from the television and the blinking blue eye of your DVD player.

Outside, it’s raining—just a light drizzle that makes the streetlamps glow a little softer and casts puddles in shades of orange and gray. You’re not expecting anyone. No one ever comes over this late, especially not uninvited.

So when the knock comes—three sharp taps—it freezes your blood.

You mute the TV. Wait. Nothing.

Then again. Three knocks.

You get up, heart thudding behind your ribs like a fist on a door. Pulling aside the curtain, you peek through the slit in the blinds.

He’s standing on your porch, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a long black hoodie. His jeans are skinny, shredded across the knees, and soaked dark from the rain. His Converse look like they’ve seen the end of the world. He’s rail-thin, almost ghostlike in the sickly yellow porchlight. His hair is a choppy mess of dyed black and streaked color and it covers half of his face in greasy strands. Heavy eyeliner smudges his eyes like charcoal bruises, and his mouth, pale and sharp, tilts up when he sees the curtain move.

You step back instinctively.

He leans closer to the glass of the front door, peering in with eerie stillness, like a painting that just moved.

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled but smooth. “I…I think I’m lost.”

You don’t answer. Your hand hovers over the doorknob. Every instinct in you screams that something’s wrong, but you can’t pin it. He’s not threatening. Not in the usual way. But there’s something about the stillness of him, like he’s not shivering in the cold rain. Like he’s not wet at all, actually.

“Sorry,” you call through the door. “I can’t help you.”

His lips twitch, not in disappointment—no, more like amusement. Like he expected that.

“No, I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either. I look like I crawled out of a graveyard, huh?”

You don’t laugh.

He sighs, exaggerated, dramatic. Leans his head against the doorframe and lets his breath fog the glass.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I swear. I just…I was supposed to meet someone, and they bailed on me. Said they lived around here. It’s cold. I’ve been walking for, like, an hour.” He glances at you sidelong through the window. “Could I just come in for a second? Just to dry off?”

There’s a static in the air, subtle but wrong. Like the moment before a thunderclap, where everything holds its breath.

“I...don’t really let strangers in,” you say, voice uncertain.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, of course. That makes sense.” He bites his lip—his bottom lip is red, a little too red—and chuckles softly. “You’ve probably seen the news. That missing girl from the gas station last week. Creepy guys lurking around. Whatever. I get it.”

You stare at him. “You’re not really lost, are you?”

That makes him grin—fully, this time. And when he does, you see it. Sharp. White. Too perfect.

“No,” he admits. “But I am cold. And you do seem really lonely.”

Your stomach flips.

He steps back, just enough to look casual. Just enough to not seem like a threat. But his eyes—dark, unreadable, ringed in kohl—stay fixed on yours.

“I’ve been watching you for a while,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “Not in a creepy way. Okay, maybe a little creepy. But it’s not like that. It’s not…bad. You’re just…”

He pauses.

“You look sad when you think no one’s watching.”

Your throat closes up.

“I know how that feels,” he continues, softer now. “To be alone on a Friday night, watching some trash movie with a bowl of popcorn you won’t finish. Like you’re waiting for something to happen, but it never does.”

You don’t respond.

“I could make it happen,” he murmurs. “If you let me in.”

You grip the doorframe.

“What’s your name?”

He tilts his head, almost boyish. “You can call me whatever you want. Something cute, if you want. Like… Ash. Or Vex. Something dramatic.”

You don’t smile.

He shrugs. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It’s Remy. Fitting, right?” He gestures to himself with a flourish.

You glance at the chain on the door. It’s still latched.

“You’re really not going to come in unless I invite you?”

Remy looks at you like he’s won something. His grin is slow. Satisfied.

“No,” he says. “I’m not that kind of monster.”

He takes a step back, stretches his arms out wide, like he’s opening himself to you. “You have all the power here. You say the words and I’m yours.”

Your breath catches.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. “Someone who wants you enough to wait on your doorstep in the rain. Someone who listens. Who watches. Who already knows what makes you cry. Someone who’d kill for you.”

The air gets colder.

“I wouldn’t just come in. I’d stay,” he says. “I’d be there when you can’t sleep. When your chest feels like it’s full of glass. When everyone else forgets you.”

Your hand drops from the door.

“Say it,” Remy whispers. “Say Come in, Remy.”

The storm outside rumbles like distant thunder. The power flickers.

“I’ll be good,” he murmurs, with a smile that shows just a flash of fang. “Promise.”

Masterlist

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evilgwrl · 11 months ago

Text

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.

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 months ago

Text

“a little while longer”

content warnings & word count: swearing, yearning, unrequited love & affection, dismissive behaviour, smut (groping kinda?, blink-and-you'll-miss cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, very vocal sub!dean), crying, angsty as all goddamn hell. think that's all. 3.8k

The rain’s been coming down for an hour straight.

Not the soft kind, not the romantic kind—this is the kind that claws at windows and floods gutters and makes the air feel like grief. The kind that doesn’t stop just because you’ve run out of reasons to stand in it.

Dean doesn’t knock. Not yet. He just stands there, under the crooked awning of your apartment building, jacket soaked clean through and hair flattened to his scalp, fists shoved deep in his pockets like if he lets them out, they’ll start shaking. Or worse—reaching.

The porch light buzzes overhead, flickering faintly, sickly yellow. He watches the glow spill out from behind your curtains, warm and dim and private in the way things become when you’re no longer welcome inside them.

You’re in there. He knows you are. And he knows he shouldn’t be.

He told himself he wouldn’t do this. Told himself a thousand times. But there’s only so many bottles you can drain, only so many half-assed apologies you can rewrite in your head before grief grabs you by the collar and says go.

So now he’s here. Soaked. Cold. And so fucking sorry he doesn’t know where to put it all.

His boots leave prints on the concrete. He stares at your door like it might swallow him.

And then he knocks. Not hard. Not loud. But heavy—like the kind of knock that comes with a name in its mouth.

He hears the shuffling. The soft footfalls. The pause behind the door.

When it opens, you’re bathed in that warm, still light. Bare legs. Oversized shirt. Hair twisted up haphazardly, ringlets sticking out like soft rebellion. And your face—god, your face—is unreadable.

Not bitter. Not hurt. Just… done.

Dean feels his ribs splinter.

You sigh. Loud. Tired. Like this is the last fucking thing you wanted tonight.

“I told you not to come back.”

He swallows. His voice scrapes its way out like it’s been hiding too long in his throat.

“I miss Cas.”

It’s not an answer. It’s not even a real sentence. But it’s all he’s got.

You don’t flinch. You just look up at the rain like it might wash the ache off your bones. Then you shake your head—once, sharp—and step aside.

“Take your boots off. Don’t drag all that shit through my hallway.”

And just like that, he’s inside.

But he’s never felt farther away from you.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. Final. Clean. Like you’ve done this before—closed him out. Closed him off.

Dean stands just inside the threshold, shoulders dripping, breath fogging faintly in the warm air. The apartment smells like lemon and sandalwood. Like soap. Like you’ve been scrubbing.

He bends to untie his boots. Rainwater pools at his feet, and he watches it soak into your welcome mat. That used to say “home,” once. Now it just says “hello.”

He toes the boots off and sets them neatly beside the door, even though it’s pointless—there’s already a mess behind him.

He straightens up. And then he sees it. The hallway.

Different.

The paint—olive green. The exact shade you used to point out in every damn swatch book. The one he always said you could do “later.” The one he never got around to.

His gut twists. It looks good. It looks finished.

But all he can think is:

She waited until I was gone to make it feel like hers.

There’s no coat rack anymore. No photos on the wall—none of the two of you at that cabin last winter, none of that blurry one Sam took of you both laughing on the bunker steps. Gone. All of it.

It feels like he’s been erased.

You don’t wait for him. You’ve already turned your back and padded softly down the hallway, leaving a faint trail of heat in your wake.

Dean follows. Silent. Drenched. Swallowing hard against the ache rising in his chest like bile.

The living room is next. It hits him like a punch.

The couch has been moved. The coffee table’s different. Lighter wood. Modern. The books on it are new, the throw blanket across the back of the armchair isn’t the navy one he used to steal during movie nights—it’s pale. Cream-coloured. Fragile-looking.

There’s a candle burning on the windowsill. The whole place is calm. Curated. Cleansed.

It’s like she burned sage and swept out my ghost.

You drop onto the couch like this is just another Thursday night.

He stands there, dripping on the hardwood, watching you tuck your legs up beneath you like you used to do when you were wrapped in his flannel. You’re not wearing his flannel now.

“You gonna stand there all night?” You don’t look at him when you say it.

Dean swallows. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. His throat burns.

“Place looks different.”

Still no eye contact.

“It should. I live here now.”

And that’s the moment.

That’s the moment something inside him starts to die.

Because you’re not being cruel. You’re not trying to wound him. You’re just telling the truth. And it hurts so much more than if you’d screamed.

You don’t look at him when you speak again. You just rise from the couch, padding barefoot toward the kitchen like this is just another moment in a life where he doesn’t matter anymore.

“You want tea or something?”

You say it like it’s a reflex. Like it’s muscle memory. Dean’s jaw tightens.

“Yeah. Uh. Sure.”

His voice sounds foreign in this room. Like it echoes wrong. Like the air doesn’t know him anymore.

You disappear behind the half-wall, and he stares at the space you left behind like a fucking idiot. The throw pillows don’t match anymore. The lamp’s been moved. The blanket’s cream instead of navy. The silence is clinical. Disinfected.

He turns his head slightly. Eyes catch the mug tree beside the microwave.

And it hits him.

That dumb mug. The one with the cartoon possum and the words “I hate mornings” in all caps. The one he’d shoved into your hands after a shitty hunt in Tulsa, saying “figured this was your vibe.”

The one you used to drink out of every morning, tucked into his chest, humming along to ELO on the shitty kitchen speaker.

Gone. Not broken. Not misplaced. Removed.

Like it never mattered.

You return, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table in front of him. Not in his hands. Not with a smile.

Just… placed. Offered.

“Still take it black?”

Dean nods, voice lost in his throat.

You sit again. Quiet. Perfect posture. One leg tucked beneath you, your fingers curled loosely around your own mug. You don’t ask him why he’s here. You don’t need to.

You’ve always been good at waiting people out.

He takes a breath.

“I didn’t know how to talk to anyone. After Cas. After—everything.”

You don’t blink. You don’t shift.

“You stopped talking to me long before that.”

He flinches.

Because it’s true. Because you said it like it was just another fact, not a wound.

The rain still whispers against the windowpane. The candle on the sill flickers.

Dean swallows hard and stares at the steam curling from the mug like it might spell something useful.

“You look better. Without me.”

You look at him then.

Not soft. Not smug. Just… calm, and whisper: “I am.”

And it guts him.

Worse than purgatory. Worse than hell.

Because you didn’t say it to be cruel. You said it like you’d finally accepted the truth. Like he was a fever you’d sweat out, and now you were clean.

He lowers himself onto the couch, slowly, like he might break the furniture just by existing near it.

His voice is barely a breath.

“Can I sit?”

You shrug. Take a sip.

“You can sit. Doesn’t mean you get to stay.”

Dean shifts on the edge of the couch like it might bite him. He hasn’t touched the coffee. He won’t. Not yet.

Your fingers are curled around your mug, steam softening the line of your jaw, but your mouth is a straight, unreadable thing.

He stares at you. Like maybe if he memorises you again, it’ll turn back time.

He opens his mouth.

“I miss yo—”

You don’t even blink.

“Don’t.”

He flinches like he’s been slapped.

You look at him then, eyes steady and hollowed out, voice quiet and bone-sharp.

“I don’t want to hear you lie anymore. You don’t get to miss me, Dean. Not after the way things went down.”

He tries again. Stammers. Fingers twitching on his knees like maybe if he moves, this won’t feel so final.

“I—I didn’t mean for it to go like that. I was just—I lost Cas, and then I lost myself, and—”

“And you lost me.” You say it so simply it makes his throat tighten. “And you didn’t come looking. Not really.”

He opens his mouth again but nothing comes out.

You sigh—long, soft, like a teacher tired of hearing excuses from the same failing student.

“I went through all five stages after you left. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Over and over. Like clockwork. For months.”

You set your mug down. Look him straight in the eyes.

“And then I stopped.”

Dean swallows. His whole chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. You’re too calm. Too composed. Too healed.

“I stopped because I realised I really did deserve better.”

He shakes his head. Not because he disagrees, but because he’s spiralling.

“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know how to fix it, I didn’t know how to say it—”

You cut him off again, but softer this time. No venom. Just truth.

“I mourned you, Dean. I mourned us. What we were. What we could’ve been.”

You pause. Let the silence stretch.

“And I mourned me. The version of me that thought love meant waiting for someone who wouldn’t show up.”

He’s reeling now. Because the words aren’t cruel. They’re not even angry. They’re just… final.

And that’s what kills him.

That’s what cracks him open.

Because he’s desperate now. For the touch, for the warmth, for the version of you that used to curl into his side like he was a place to rest.

But she’s not here. And he’s realising he might’ve buried her with his silence.

Dean looks like he’s about to speak—twice—but stops himself both times. His hands twitch in his lap. His knee starts to bounce. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, scrubs a hand down his face like he can wipe the helplessness off.

“I—fuck, I didn’t come here to—I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“Then why did you come here?”

Your voice cuts clean through the static of his panic. You tilt your head, eyes sharp now, sharper than they’ve been all night. Something in you shifts—tired, maybe, or just done playing therapist to a man who only ever wanted you when you were slipping away.

“You need closure or something? You want me to pat your hand and tell you you’re still a good man?”

Dean’s mouth parts. He doesn’t speak.

“Is that it?”

You lean back into the couch like you’ve already decided this isn’t worth your energy. The dismissal burns in his chest.

“If that’s what you came for… fine. I’ll give you closure.”

Your voice is steel beneath silk.

“But then you leave. And you leave me the hell alone.”

Dean shifts forward like something’s pulled his whole body toward you.

“No—no, I didn’t come here for that, I—I didn’t know what else to do. I—I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I know that doesn’t fix shit, but I’m here. I need—Jesus, I need you, I—”

You sigh, sharp and frustrated.

And Dean—God help him—lights up inside at the sound. Not because you’re forgiving him. Not because you’re softening. But because finally, finally, you’re reacting.

“Thank Christ,” he breathes, almost a whisper. “I thought—fuck, I thought I lost even that.”

You look at him like you might laugh. Like you might cry. You don’t do either.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He lurches forward slightly on the couch. Closer. Knees almost touching yours now. There’s something different in the air between you—still heavy, still rotten—but now it’s crackling too. Charged.

You lean in a little. Not much. Just enough that he notices.

“What is it you want from me, Dean? You want me to scream? You want me to throw something?”

Your voice is low now. Measured. Tired and electric all at once.

“You want me to feel something again for you?”

His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I want you to look at me like you used to. I want you to touch me like I’m still worth something.”

Silence.

The kind that aches.

And then—

You reach forward slowly, place your mug on the table. Dean’s breath catches. You turn back to him.

“If you want closure… you can have it.”

The words sit between you like an open door.

And Dean’s already halfway through it.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stares at you like he’s waiting for your approval. But you don’t give it. You just lean back on the couch—spine against the cushions, legs slightly parted, watching him with the kind of cool disinterest that should have gutted him.

Instead, it makes his cock twitch.

He swallows again. His throat is dry. Everything else is wet.

“You said… closure.”

Your fingers trail lazily along the inside of your thigh, not even touching the hem of the long shirt you’re wearing. Just resting there. Like he’s not worth the effort of anticipation.

Dean exhales, shaky. Then his hands move to the fly of his jeans, slow and fumbling. The fabric clings to him, soaked through, and he has to peel it down—dragging wet denim down his thighs like it’s a punishment.

His boxers follow. Dark and damp and clinging low on his hips. He’s already hard—of course he is.

He looks at you.

Still nothing.

No heat. No softness. Just cool appraisal, like you’re deciding whether or not to let him crawl closer.

“Please.”

It slips out without permission. He winces at it—but doesn’t take it back.

You raise an eyebrow, just slightly.

“Please what?”

Your voice is bored. Detached. But cutting.

Dean’s knees hit the floor.

The carpet scratches his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s kneeling in front of you now, cock flushed and twitching, hands flexing on your thighs but not daring to move further.

You still haven’t touched him.

“Please,” he whispers again. “Please let me… just let me—”

Your head tilts. Like you’re studying something pathetic. A little sad. A little entertaining.

“Let you what, Dean?”

He groans. A sound from deep in his chest—frustrated, humiliated, needy.

“Let me taste you. Let me feel you again. Just once.”

You don’t smile.

“You’re dripping all over my carpet.”

That should’ve shamed him. Instead, he moans. Low. Breathless. Eyes fluttering closed for a second like even that insult feeds him.

“Fuck—fuck, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it, I’ll do whatever you want, just—”

Your hand tangles in his damp hair, finally. Fingers gripping the roots, tilting his head back so he’s forced to look up at you.

Your eyes are cold. Detached. Like he’s a stranger in your home.

“You’re not here because I love you,” you murmur. “You’re here because I’m kind.”

Dean swallows a whimper.

“I know. I know. Just—please. I need you. I need this.”

You release his hair and lean back again, spreading your legs just enough that he gets the message.

And he moves—mouth already open, eyes glazed with gratitude and something feral.

He dives between your thighs like a man starved.

And above him, you don’t moan. You don’t whisper his name. You just lie there, gaze distant, chest rising slowly, as if none of this really matters anymore.

Dean eats you like it’s the last thing that will ever make him feel whole again. And maybe it is.

Your fingers thread through his hair again—but not like before. Not to guide. Not to praise. Just to push him back.

“Might as well stop.”

Your voice slices clean through the haze. Dean pulls back from between your thighs, lips swollen, chin slick, pupils blown wide. He blinks up at you like he’s just been slapped.

“What?”

“You’re not gonna make me come like this anymore.”

You stretch out lazily, like this is all beneath you. Like he’s beneath you.

“You aren't getting me off.”

Dean looks like he’s reeling. Like you’ve just kicked the air out of his lungs. His hands shake as they grip your thighs.

“Why—Why do you hate me?”

His voice cracks in the middle, breaking like bone.

He drags you down the couch in a single, desperate pull—your ass sliding to the edge, your legs open around him like muscle memory.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t reach for him. You look down at him with steady, surgical detachment.

“I don’t hate you, Dean.”

He freezes.

His chest stills. His eyes search yours. Something flutters in them—hope. Fragile and stupid.

Until you keep going.

“To hate someone, you have to feel something for them.”

You tilt your head.

“And I don’t feel anything for you anymore.”

He makes a sound—not a groan, not a growl—something small. Wounded. Like something inside him is caving in.

Then he presses forward. Drags himself through your folds like he’s begging for forgiveness with his body.

You don’t sigh. You don’t gasp. You just watch him.

And then—

He shoves inside you.

A single, desperate thrust. Full. Deep. Like it’s penance. Dean’s whole body shudders. His head drops forward against your chest. He’s panting. Hard. Like every breath is a plea.

“Fuck. Fuck—please—”

You say nothing.

You let him fuck into you like he’s trying to remember how it used to feel when you wanted him. You don’t move. Don’t cling. Don’t kiss. And he whimpers against your skin.

He’s never felt so close to breaking.

Dean’s fucking into you like a prayer gone unanswered. Desperate. Messy. Panting like he’s running out of time and maybe he is, maybe he already has. His hands are bruising your hips, but you barely flinch.

Your eyes are half-lidded, glazed with disinterest. He’s rutting like a man possessed, and you’re just lying there—head back, lips parted, gaze fixed on some invisible point on the ceiling. Not him. Never him.

“You think you can fuck your way to absolution,” you murmur. “Like I’ll forgive everything just because you’re on your knees now.”

Dean whimpers. A real one. From the throat, cracked and choked.

“I didn’t mean to—I never wanted to hurt you, I just—”

You cut him off with a sharp breath through your nose.

“You didn’t mean to lie to me? Didn’t mean to disappear when I needed you the most? Didn’t mean to make me feel small, like I was some extra weight you didn’t ask to carry?”

His thrusts falter. Sloppier now. Like your words are striking bone.

“You left me to drown in that silence. You left me to claw my way out of the wreckage alone.”

He moans like he’s being stabbed. Like he wants to argue, but his hips won’t stop moving—won’t stop confessing for him.

And then you say it.

Cold. Clinical. A scalpel dragged across the throat of everything you used to be:

“Wow.”

You meet his eyes.

“This used to feel so much better when I loved you.”

He freezes.

Mid-thrust. Mid-breath. His body stills completely, cock buried deep inside you, shaking. His mouth parts like he wants to say your name but doesn’t dare.

You stare down at him.

Still. Unbothered. Like you didn’t just reach into his chest and rip his heart out bare-handed.

His eyes shimmer. His jaw works. He’s not moving anymore—just trembling, thick and aching inside you, trying to hold on to a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.

You don’t kiss him. You don’t comfort him. You just sigh.

“Finish if you’re gonna finish, Dean. I’m tired.”

And that’s what breaks him. Because you’re not angry. You’re over it. And he never will be.

He starts moving again.

Hesitant at first—like he’s afraid you’ll stop him. Or worse, won’t. The thrusts come slow, then desperate, then frantic. His fingers dig into your hips. His forehead presses against your shoulder.

You still don’t move. Still don’t moan. Still don’t give him anything.

And that’s what makes him fucking lose it.

“Please,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please, baby, I—I need you to…”

He trails off because he doesn’t even know what he needs. A sound. A sigh. A twitch of your hand in his hair. Anything.

But you just stare past him like he’s a dream you woke from years ago.

“Fuck—talk to me—say something, anything, I can’t—”

His voice catches. He thrusts harder. Pathetically hard. His whole body shudders with effort. He’s panting like a dog in heat, chasing a ghost of who you used to be.

“I’ll be better—just let me—please, let me make you feel something—”

Nothing.

You’re just a warm, wet grave he’s digging into, begging for resurrection. And there’s no miracle coming.

“I love you,” he gasps. “God, I love you, I love you—”

He’s trembling now, losing rhythm, hips stuttering—

You blink slowly, as if the weight of those words is no heavier than a breeze.

He chokes out a sob and pulls out at the last second, fisting himself hard and fast with one shaky hand, mouth slack as his whole body jerks—

He spills across your mound with a broken moan, spend hot between your bodies, dripping down your skin as his hand goes slack.

He starts to collapse forward, but you shift slightly, sitting up on your elbows.

And he—fucking desperate—wraps his arms around you from the awkward angle, smushing himself against you, face buried in your chest, breathing hard.

His cum smears between you both, sticky and hot and miserable. He doesn’t care. He just holds on.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles into your skin. “Just—just a little while longer, let me hold you.”

You sigh. Not emotional. Not annoyed. Just… done. You rest your hands on his shoulders—flat, impersonal—and then you push.

He lets you.

You sit up, slide out from beneath him, the wet drag of him pulling away leaving a ghost behind.

You stand, bare but untouchable, and turn to face him where he still kneels.His face is flushed. Eyes red. Chest heaving.

You don’t pity him.

“Dean,” you say softly.

He looks up like he’s ready to say I’m sorry again. Like he’s ready to beg.

You don’t let him.

“You need to get out of my apartment now.”

His mouth opens.

“Leave me the hell alone.”

He flinches.

“For good.”

The words hit like bullets. Final. Precise. You don’t say them with cruelty. You say them like you’re taking out the trash. Because that’s all that’s left of this.

He stares up at you. Still hard. Still dripping. Still hoping.

But your eyes are empty. And this time, he knows you mean it.

He stands slowly. Pulls his pants back up. Doesn’t bother with his wet jacket. And when he walks to the door, you don’t follow. You don’t say goodbye.

You just wipe yourself clean, light a candle, and turn the page.

author note/s: hey everybody, so instead of forcing myself to finish editing and posting the next part of "cruel summer", i decided to work through some of my current trauma by writing this utterly devastating and depressing piece. i don't know. i just need it at the moment. it's the first time in weeks i've felt motivated to write and i'm angry as fuck at my ex and i needed a way to vent. so here it is. i know dean's being pathetic in this one, like even for sub!dean but i'm living vicariously through this so shh please. let me know what y'all think. i love all of you, so much. all the love.

dean taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @bruisedfig @angelicjackles @soldiersgirl @tinas111 @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @drakulana @mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @liiiilsss @0ccvltism @itshellfire @sl33pylilbunny @nevercameraready @paristheonewhoreads @podiumackles @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @spxideyver @winchestersbgirl @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 <3

everything taglist: @bejeweledinterludes @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @ambiguous-avery @deansbeer <3

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sexlapis · 5 months ago

Text

“Toji?”

“Hm?” Toji makes a noise of acknowledgment. It’s far too late for the two of you to be awake but you guess it’s going to be one of those nights where you get your sleep after midnight.

Toji rarely ever got a good nights rest no matter how hard you tried to make him. Sleep late, up early. Such a schedule has been ingrained into him since childhood and then perpetuated by the unpredictability of his secret job.

You stare at his wide back and ponder on the question.

“When did you know you loved me?”

Even though he wasn’t moving much in the first place, Toji seems to freeze up. You cringe at yourself. You always said such silly things around him.

He rolls over to face you, his big, heavy body rattling the bed with such small movements. He was big in every way.

Toji eyes are shaded with a dark shadow that makes your heart ache. His hair is messy. There’s a blooming, indigo-coloured bruise growing on his cheekbone, a common stain caused by the life he chooses. He sits up to rest his head on his hand, lying on his elbow. Long, inky lashes flutter as Toji blinks the sleep out of his eyes. For a moment, he simply looks at you. And to you, he’s the most beautiful man on earth.

“Why’re you asking these stupid questions right now?”

You deflate, drowsy affection for him dissipating for a second before he gives you that smirk he gifts you with all too often.

If he really didn’t want to talk, he would’ve just ignored you even after he acknowledged you. That’s what he’s like; self-centred, crude, insensitive, downright rude. But he has too many redeeming qualities. He could commit atrocities, acts of brutality, yet you could stick by his side no matter what. That scared you.

You shuffle closer to him, and say, “Answer the question.”

Toji huffs, eyes rolling. He gets back underneath the covers, bringing the sheet right up to his chin, head cushioned on the pillow.

Just when you really think he won’t answer, he speaks too quietly for you to hear.

“Hm?” You sound, eagerly. You probably should’ve been calm about it, to not embarrass Toji or make him feel too vulnerable, but you wanted to know what made it certain for him, what solidified it in his heart to love you and only you.

Toji sighs. “When we went to that diner around the corner. After you patched me up. Remember that?”

Yeah, you remember. Toji had been gone for too long. You had worried so much that day, wondering if this was the time when his luck had ran out. You had bitten your nails clean. Then he had opened the window to your bathroom, tumbling through it, wet and bloody. Panic had flooded your already worried body as you fussed over him, questioning him, demanding to where he had been and what happened until he had shouted at you to fix him up, his voice booming loudly around the small room. Silence hung heavy in the room as you mended him, putting the physical pieces of his already scared body back together. You didn’t know what to do during the scarce moments he was like that. Toji sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He had choked out. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

You had been on the verge of tears since he had shouted at you and those words had only tipped you over the edge.

Toji hugged you for a long time. His fingers, bruised at the knuckles with sickly yellows and blues, his calloused hands hardened with violence and destruction had held you so tenderly in his arms and for the first time in a long time, Toji had treated something, someone, with real care.

“How about we go to that diner?” He had spoken into your hair. “The one you said we’d go to. Yeah?”

That was how Toji apologised, you believe. He can’t speak. He can never get those words out of his mouth; such words clog up in his throat and are ultimately drained all the way back down to his stomach where they sit and soak in acid.

But when you were eating greasy food, shoving fries in your mouth while he looked at you in the corner of his eye, you understood what he had meant.

I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m not mad at you. Forgive me, I can’t change.

It was a fond memory that feels like it happened lifetimes ago, though it wasn’t exactly the happiest day of your life.

“Seriously? That day?”

“I know. I know I was an asshole-“”

“A really big asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Toji dismisses with a wave of his hand, lip curling up. There’s a far away look in his eyes as he stares at the adjacent wall. “But…that’s when I knew. Yeah…”

You both don’t talk for a few seconds. Toji eyes flicker down to where you lay, soft. He seems so innocent in this darkness when he is nothing of the sort.

“What about you?” Toji asks.

“What?”

“You know…”

“Oh…” You gape.

When did you know you loved him?

You’ve known him for so long. You feel like you’ve know the man all your whole life, like family. Toji is a part of you, and you a part of him. You both can never be separated, never be forced apart without one of you breaking to pieces. Two hearts coming together to make a whole one that cannot function without the other half.

So you think long and hard about when you first fell for Toji. When it just clicked for you.

“I think…I think it was when you broke the nose of the guy who touched my ass.”

Toji barks out a loud laugh and you shush him quickly, smothering your little giggles that bubble out of you. You and Toji already receive enough noise complaints from your neighbours already.

His breath fans across your face as he speaks, “Yeah, I remember that. He was a fucking prick.”

“He was.” You agree with a grin.

“You liked that, huh? That’s what does it for you? Me beating up other guys?”

You nod. “I like when you defend my honour.”

“You’re fucked in the head.” He scoffs.

“Toji…I picked you to be my boyfriend. You’re only now just realising this?”

Toji stifles a cackle and shakes his head at you, a smile on his lips. One that dents the dimple in his left cheek. One of his rare genuine ones; not a smirk of snark or a malicious grin. A smile of pure fondness. Love.

Toji looks to the alarm clock on your side of the bed.

00:00

“Ah.” He raises his eyebrows. “Better sleep. Or your ass won’t be able to get up for work.”

“Hm? Oh right.” You yawn. Sleep is getting the best of you. “I was thinking of just skipping.”

“You got plans?”

“Mhm.” You rest your head on his chest, feeling it rumble and purr. “We can spend the day in. Watch a movie. Order food. Go to that diner for breakfast before we do all of that…Mmm, yeah…”

Your eyes are lidded. Cheek smushed up against the pillow, lips cracked, your tank top strap falling off your shoulder.

Toji thinks that it’s a good idea - he’d rather have this view, you all cosy and warm in bed, food smeared on your cheek and you forcing him to watch the show you’ve been begging him to watch while you lay your whole body on top of his.

That was all he wanted for tomorrow.

“Toji.”

“Yeah?”

“I knew you loved me that day.” You tell him, casually.

“‘That right?”

“Mmm. You actually used your own money to buy the burgers…You’re usually so damn cheap…”

“Oh, shut up.

You don’t tell him you loved him since the first time you ever saw him.

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

masterlist

#dividers by @/anitalenia #cw slightly toxic relationship #cw slightly suggestive #toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji x self insert #toji fluff #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x y/n #toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro fluff #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x you #fushiguro toji fluff #toji zenin x reader #toji zenin x you #toji fanfic

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socialobligation · 3 months ago

Note

Need... Worried asf monoma x barely alive reader who got their ass sent to the hospital... Shit ton of angst and a fluffy ending and my life is yours unc 🙏🙏

what silence held | n. monoma

the mission went wrong. she didn't make it out whole. he held what was left, whispering promises and apologies into bloodstained skin, praying she'd come back just once more. (2407 words)

neito monoma had always been a figure sculpted from layers of meticulous deflection and purposeful arrogance, a carefully constructed image designed to repel rather than invite closeness. beneath that armor, however, lay an earnestness few had glimpsed, an admiration that had quietly rooted itself deep within him, growing stronger with every interaction he had shared with you—an admiration he kept stubbornly hidden behind sarcasm and rivalry.

but now, standing rigid and hollow-eyed before the stark hospital window separating him from your battered form, monoma felt every carefully laid barrier crumble beneath the weight of profound fear. the clinical white lights cast sharp, unforgiving reflections across the polished floors, illuminating your frail, unmoving figure beneath the sterile sheets. the stark contrast between your vibrant spirit—once so full of stubborn resolve—and the battered body now sustained by machines cut deep into his consciousness, a visceral pain he'd never known before.

your body was a ruin.

blood still crusted around the stitches at your temple, a wound that split your skin down to the bone. your left eye, swollen shut, was purpled nearly black. dried blood rimmed your nostrils. deep bruises bloomed across your collarbone and arms, fingerprints in violent shades of plum and yellow. a jagged gash peeked from beneath the gauze on your abdomen, where they'd reopened you twice due to internal bleeding. a rib had pierced your lung. he'd overheard the doctors say it was a miracle you'd made it to the hospital at all.

inside the room, it was too quiet.

the low whir of the oxygen machine, the faint hiss of air being pushed into your lungs, the soft, consistent beeping of the heart monitor—it should have been reassuring. instead, it felt like a countdown, like a fragile metronome ticking away the seconds you might have left. monoma sat motionless in the corner of your room, the plastic chair beneath him stiff and biting. the rhythmic tick of the wall clock carved into his skull with every passing second, each one sounding louder than the last.

he hated it. hated the silence. hated the way it filled his ears and forced him to listen to the slow, labored breaths you weren't taking on your own. hated the sterility, the scent of antiseptic that clung to the air like guilt. he wanted to scream, but the moment he opened his mouth, nothing came. just the sound of that damned beeping.

monoma sat in rigid silence, watching as your chest rose with the help of the machines, not strength. not anymore. all he could do was sit there and remember. not the good memories. no—the last thing he wanted, the thing he couldn't stop seeing, was how it happened. how you ended up like this. how he let you end up like this.

and then he was back there.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the air was thick with smoke and ash, turning daylight into a choking haze that painted the battlefield in bruised, sickly hues. rubble littered the ground, the shattered remains of buildings cracked open like bone, and the screams of distant civilians echoed behind the veil of destruction. fires burned unchecked, consuming what little structure remained. it was the kind of scene that stripped away any illusion of heroism—just ruin, blood, and the desperate need to survive.

monoma was bleeding.

he stumbled behind a half-collapsed wall, hand pressed tightly against his ribs, where something inside cracked with every breath. he had copied a quirk minutes ago—strength, maybe, or speed—but the user had gone down too fast, and now the power was bleeding out of him like the rest of his strength. he was running on fumes. his vision was doubled. he was useless.

he was alone.

except for you.

you were still standing. just barely.

ahead of him, through the smoke and flame, you faced the villain who had carved through half your team like wet paper. their quirk was monstrous—pure kinetic manipulation, an ability that turned every limb into a wrecking ball. every punch split concrete. every kick ruptured the earth. the sheer pressure rolling off their body was suffocating.

and you stood in front of it.

you were a wreck. blood soaked your shirt, a dark patch blooming from your side where a rebar had grazed your abdomen. one of your arms dangled slightly off-kilter—dislocated or broken, monoma couldn't tell. your face was almost unrecognizable: your cheek had split open, swollen to the size of your fist, and one eye had completely shut from the bruising. blood matted your hair and dried at the corners of your mouth. your jaw trembled with exhaustion.

but your legs held. barely.

"stay down," the villain growled, voice grating through clenched teeth. "i'll make it quick."

you spat blood at their feet. "you first."

monoma wanted to scream.

you moved first.

you ducked under the first blow. the wind it produced nearly knocked you off balance. you countered, striking fast—a jab to the ribs, a glowing blast of energy from your fingertips—but it only staggered them.

then they retaliated.

their elbow cracked against your jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. monoma saw your teeth snap together hard, blood spraying as your head snapped to the side. you crumpled against a lamppost, rebounded, and charged again with reckless, suicidal momentum.

he wanted to stop you. he wanted to grab your wrist and scream that it wasn't worth it.

but he couldn't even stand.

the villain slammed their foot into your stomach, lifting you off the ground. you flew ten feet and landed with a sound that monoma never wanted to hear again—flesh hitting stone, followed by silence. a wheeze escaped you, thin and wet.

you pushed up on shaking elbows, coughing violently. blood spilled from your mouth. you were wheezing, your breath broken like cracked glass. you reached for the pavement, tried to draw strength into your limbs, but your knees collapsed.

still, you got up.

monoma watched in horror as the villain lunged again.

they grabbed you by the throat and lifted you from the ground. your legs kicked weakly, a final show of resistance. your fingers clawed at their wrist, tearing at the skin, but you couldn't breathe.

they slammed you into a wall.

then the ground.

then again.

you weren't even screaming anymore. just hoarse, rasping gasps.

they punched you in the stomach. once. twice. three times. each hit echoed with a sickening crush. blood streamed freely from your mouth and nose. your arms dropped. your eyes rolled. your head lolled.

monoma could barely see. he was crawling—literally dragging himself across the pavement, nails scraping along the broken asphalt. he left a trail of blood behind him, from his own split skin, from your splattered remains.

you made a noise. it wasn't a word. just something small. a protest. a whimper.

the villain dropped you like a broken doll.

you didn't move.

monoma reached you in time to catch your head before it hit the ground. your face was slack, your eyes glassy. blood bubbled at your lips. he could feel the broken ribs beneath your skin, the sick heat of internal bleeding pressing against your side.

your chest fluttered. barely breathing.

your lips moved.

he leaned in. "don't—don't talk. you're okay. you're okay, just hold on."

your fingers twitched. you tried to raise your arm, but it fell uselessly.

and then, the villain turned.

monoma looked up. he met their eyes—calm, detached, like they were already moving past this scene.

he didn't have the strength to fight. he didn't even have the strength to stand.

but he spread himself over your body anyway, shielding what little was left of you.

sirens in the distance. voices. shouting. too far. too late.

he screamed your name. screamed for help until his voice cracked.

when the others finally arrived, they had to pry his fingers off you. he was still trying to hold your head. still whispering, "she's still breathing," even though you weren't.

they started cpr before they got you on the gurney.

monoma watched the chest compressions. the blood that seeped through the gauze. the oxygen mask they fitted over your mouth. the way your body jolted with every push.

he saw them restart your heart.

twice.

he saw the paramedic shake their head.

he rode in the ambulance. he held your hand the entire way.

and he didn't realize he was still whispering your name until they pulled him off at the er doors, dragging him back as the double doors slammed shut between you.

and he stood there, hands shaking, blood everywhere, not knowing if you were alive or already gone.

and in that moment, monoma broke.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

his body jolted forward, dragged violently back into the present. the smell of blood still clung to his nose, phantom pain still pulsed in his chest where he'd slammed against the pavement. but your hand was still there. still in his. and barely—just barely—you were still breathing.

he stood up suddenly and crossed to your bedside, dragging the chair behind him, the legs screeching softly against the floor. he took your hand into both of his, warming it with his touch, rubbing gently like he could coax life back into you through sheer willpower. his thumbs traced the bones beneath your skin, too sharp now, too still.

"you always did chase trouble," he whispered again, throat raw. "always leaping into things like you were invincible. i admired it, you know. even when i mocked you, i admired it."

he swallowed, breath shaking. "you make people braver just by standing beside them. you make me braver. and i hate how much i didn't say it before."

his voice wavered as he leaned forward. "you have to wake up. i need you to wake up."

the monitor continued its measured beeping.

and then, in an instant, that beeping stuttered. changed. slowed.

it was like watching a glass fall from a ledge. monoma's head snapped toward the monitor.

then the alarm.

the shrill wail of the machines filled the room, loud and final. flatline.

"code blue! room 308!"

monoma stumbled back as a tidal wave of medical staff poured into the room. hands gripped his arms, pulling him away, guiding him to the wall.

your body convulsed once under the defibrillator's shock. a nurse straddled the bed, counting out compressions as another prepared the next jolt. the beeping was gone. it had been replaced by that long, singular tone—flat and cruel.

he could see the color draining from your face. could see how your limbs had fallen loose, like strings cut from a marionette. you weren't breathing. your chest didn't rise. and he felt something inside him crack wide open.

the compressions were brutal. blood bubbled at your lips from the force of them, smeared across your cheek as your head lolled uselessly to the side. the nurse's hands were slicked in it. every thrust against your sternum echoed in monoma's ribs like he was being punched himself.

"again! clear!"

the jolt lifted your chest off the bed. still nothing.

one of the nurses looked up at another, eyes wide. "her vitals are too unstable. i—i don't know if we're going to get her back."

"we keep going!" another shouted, voice fraying at the edges. "she's young. she can still fight."

but doubt was a living thing in the room now. it crept through the gaping silence between the shocks, through the gory mess staining your gown, through the flatness of your chest.

monoma shoved against the arm trying to steady him. "please," he said, voice low and strangled. "please just—just do something. don't let her—don't let her die."

he was shoved back as they resumed cpr. he could hear bones breaking. could hear his own blood in his ears, roaring.

he was watching you die.

and then.

a single, weak beep.

then another.

the line began to flutter, erratic but blessedly alive. the flat tone faded into silence.

"we have a pulse!"

monoma collapsed into the nearest chair like a marionette cut loose. his hands were shaking violently. he reached for your hand again—still cold, still limp—but now, thankfully, attached to something living.

he didn't speak for hours. couldn't. his voice felt locked somewhere deep in his chest, behind the weight of what he'd seen. what he'd almost lost.

—

days passed in a haze.

he hardly left the room. ate only when someone forced him. he sat beside you, head bowed, whispering things you couldn't hear but said anyway. apologies. promises. secrets.

he memorized the peaks and valleys of the monitor's readout, flinched at every hiccup in the rhythm. he learned the shift rotations of the nurses, knew which ones brought your meds, which one checked the iv. he hated all of them for seeing you like this.

when your fingers twitched, he almost didn't notice.

then, they moved again.

he sat bolt upright. "y/n?"

your eyes fluttered, unfocused. your lips parted. "neito..?"

the breath he exhaled was more like a sob. "you're awake. you're really awake."

you tried to smile. "i feel like i got hit by a truck."

he laughed, broken and soft. "you look like it too. but you're here."

silence stretched between you again. but this time, it was the kind that held weight.

there were things in the air—things he had left unsaid. things you'd never had the chance to hear.

monoma reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead. "there's something i have to tell you."

you blinked slowly, but your gaze was steady. "okay."

"i can't... i can't keep pretending i don't care. you've always meant more to me than i let on. i admire you. i rely on you—" he paused, breath catching. "i love you. i didn't know how badly until i thought you were gone."

your breath caught too—but not from weakness. your eyes softened, a glint of warmth returning to your face.

"i think i've been waiting to hear that for a long time."

monoma swallowed hard, trying and failing to suppress the tremor in his hands. "then i'm sorry it took almost losing you to say it."

you smiled, slow and tired. "i forgive you. but you're not getting rid of me that easily."

he leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. the machines continued to beep, slow and steady. for the first time in days, monoma let himself close his eyes.

"then i'm not going anywhere. ever."

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bettysupremacy · 2 years ago

Note

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?”

#james potter x you #james potter blurb #james potter fluff #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james x reader #james potter fic #james x you #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter #james potter comfort #james potter x y/n #james potter x y/n fluff #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x wife!reader #marauders x reader #marauders fluff

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hollowed-theory-hall · 6 months ago

Note

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, hair represents 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.

#harry potter #hp #hp meta #asks #anonymous #hollowedtheory #harry potter meta #harry james potter #hp magical theory #alchemy #bellatrix lestrange #gregory goyle #vincent crabbe

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volturissideslut · 2 years ago

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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🫶🏻

𝕵𝖆𝖓𝖊 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."

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yallthemwitches · 11 months ago

Text

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.

#jily week 2024 #Jily Week Day 2 #james potter #jily #lily evans #hp #jily fanfiction #marauders #marauders era #Dursleys #Meet the family #some silly fluff #james x lily

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yanyandam · 4 months ago

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Hulloo hullo 🥺 may I ask for hanma shuji comforting the reader? Like a scenario where he's the reader but also one as friends

HII tysm for requesting. Okay, here's a small scenario: you can see it as platonic or romantic depending on which one you prefer tbhh. Its pretty short + I tried to not be too out of character? Seriously, its hard for me to imagine HANMA trying to be genuinely comforting LMAO

The neon lights of Kabukicho flickered above like a drunken heartbeat, painting the wet pavement in shades of red, blue, and sickly yellow. The streets reeked of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and the faint, unmistakable stench of sins. A place where love was rented by the hour, debts were settled with fists, and where men with hollow eyes staggered out of hostess bars, laughing too loud, acting like kings in a kingdom made of lust. You didn’t belong here. But here you were.

The plastic bag in your hand crinkled as you stepped out of a small, run-down convenience store, your thoughts a mess. Your chest was tight, and your head buzzed with frustration. You shouldn’t have even been out this late, but avoiding your problems at home was easier than facing them. Then, just as you turned onto a quieter street, a voice, deep and eerily monotone, slid into your ears like an unwelcome ghost. “Look who it is.”

That voice. It sent a shiver up your spine, not out of fear, though fear would have been justified, but because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You turned sharply, heart lurching.

“Shit—Hanma!?”

Shuji Hanma and those damn hands, one of them decorated with a single word: Sin. The other, Punishment. Fitting. His lips curled around a cigarette, exhaling smoke in lazy ribbons as he observed you with those half-lidded, sharp eyes that always looked like he was waiting for something interesting to happen.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you shot back, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. A little shaky. A little tired. He studied you for a moment before smirking. “I could ask you the same thing. This ain’t exactly a place for lost little puppies.”

You rolled your eyes, tightening your grip on your bag. “I go where I want.”

Hanma let out a small chuckle, the kind that made you feel like you were a joke he hadn’t finished laughing at yet. “Shit. Someone’s cranky. You get kicked out of a love hotel or something?”

“Long story,” you muttered, not in the mood for his usual bullshit.

“Then cut it short,” he said, falling into step beside you like he’d decided your business was now his business. “I’m bored.”

You let out a breath, debating if you even wanted to get into it. But maybe, just maybe, talking would help. “I… got into some trouble with a guy around here.”

Hanma raised an eyebrow. “Trouble? Like, you fuckin’ owe him money, or did you sleep with him?”

You shot him a glare. “It’s not like that. I owed him a bit of cash. Took me a while to pay him back. And instead of just letting it go, he started spreading shit about me.” The words felt heavier when spoken out loud, like bricks pressing down on your chest. It wasn’t just about the money. It was the humiliation. The feeling of being so goddamn powerless, of having someone twist your reality just because they could. You swallowed hard, blinking fast as your throat burned. “I’m just tired, okay? Feels like I always find new ways to fuck things up and embarrass myself.”

Hanma stopped walking. You barely had time to react before he let out a short, barking laugh. The kind that wasn’t so much amusement as it was a mockery.

“Wait—hold up. Are you crying?”

Your stomach dropped. “What? No—”

But Hanma only laughed harder, his voice sharp and cutting. “Holy shit. You’re actually crying.”

You clenched your fists, the heat in your face growing unbearable. “Yeah, so what? Like I need to explain myself to you.” You turned to walk away, embarrassment creeping in like a sickness. You knew this was a mistake. Of all people, why the hell did you think Hanma would care? But before you could take another step, a rough hand snatched your wrist.

“Hey.”

His grip was firm, fingers cold against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make it clear, you weren’t going anywhere until he decided otherwise. “Let go,” you snapped, trying to yank your arm away.

“Not done talkin’,” Hanma said lazily, though there was something strange in his tone. Not quite irritation, not quite amusement. Something in between. “C’mere.” His hold loosened just enough for you to pull back if you really wanted to. But you hesitated. Hanma exhaled smoke, letting it curl around his lips before flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel. “Tch. You’re seriously lettin’ some lowlife’s bullshit get to you? Thought you had more spine than that.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to stay composed. “Not everyone can just not give a shit, Hanma.”

His grin widened. “Sure they can. You just gotta decide their opinion ain’t worth dick.”

You shook your head. “Easy for you to say. You don’t care about anything.”

Hanma tilted his head, pretending to think. “Nah. I care about stuff. Like…” He tapped his chin in mock contemplation. “Kicking ass. The way blood looks under streetlights. The sound of teeth breakin’ when you hit the right spot.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “You ever just… lose it? Just go all-out? No fear, no hesitation? That’s what life’s really about.”

You swallowed hard. His words were low, slow, dripping with something both terrifying and intoxicating. You shook your head. “That’s not me.”

“That’s me. And you know I’m here. So the real stuff is here for ya.” Then, just as quickly as he had grabbed you, he let go. “Anyway,” he muttered, stretching his arms like he had just finished a particularly boring conversation. “Guess that’s enough of playin’ therapist for one night.”

Before you could react, he snatched the plastic bag from your grip.

“H-hey! What the fuck!?”

Hanma grinned, shaking the bag teasingly. “Thanks for the food.”

“Are you kidding me—”

“Later, crybaby.” But he was already walking away, waving lazily over his shoulder. "By the way, if that son of a bitch pulls some shit on you again, call me. I’m always down to break a few teeth."

You stood there, stunned, fists clenched, heart still pounding. And yet… somehow, the weight in your chest wasn’t as heavy anymore.

Bastard.

BONUS: Comforting hcs

He won’t say comforting things, but he’ll be there. Sitting beside you, standing near, keeping watch.

If someone hurt you, and you're one of these RARE people he tolerates, that person’s gonna regret it.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #shuji hanma #hanma #hanma x reader #hanma shuji #hanma shuji x reader #shuji hanma x reader #hanma fluff #hanma shuji fluff #tokyo revengers x reader

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disappearinginq · 7 days ago

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It’d been 8 days?

So this was actually my very first Slow Horses fic attempt. Set sometime around season 2-3, because Marcus is alive and Catherine hadn't left yet, but the entirety of the idea I had was that River goes missing, and for once, it had nothing to do with him, it had to do with Lamb, and forced Lamb to take a good hard look at his relationship with the Horses, but especially River. And this started because all I had for an idea for a scene (that weirdly never made it to paper) was that Lamb came to see River in hospital, and River, despite showing signs of torture, was just giving Lamb intel from the people he'd escaped from. Like, not processing that Lamb was concerned about him at all, just giving the rundown of "yeah, four guys, [age height description] before he forgets about it and Lamb is just like...do you really think that's what I care about in this scenario?

It kept the generally feel as that, but not the details. Like Louisa is now there too, and River is hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh off pain meds, but he does still escape on his own and gets picked up and taken to hospital where Lamb and Louisa meet him, and they're trying to put together events while River is again hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh and of limited clarity.

Snippet:

River was asleep in the bed, in a position so uncomfortable looking, even Lamb winced in sympathy. And that was nothing to say of the rest of him.

It’s not like seeing River beaten and bloody was something new to either of them. In fact, it might be argued that was his natural state of being.

It’s not even that he looked worse now than any of those other times. Duffy did a more than fair number on him after the Tiger Team incident, and then River had the good luck to finish the same day off with being blown up. For weeks afterward, he’d hobbled about with a broken ankle and ribs and a concussion while the bruises and cuts turned spectacular black and purple, before fading to a sickly green and yellow.

But that was the difference.

River was up. He was walking, he was talking, he was even taking the piss out of Lamb and the rest of Slough House. He may have looked like absolute shit but it was equally as obvious he would be fine, once the injuries healed.

He wasn’t up this time.

River was always pale, but now he looked ghastly, the whiteness of his skin only interrupted by the violent red and purple of old and new bruising. His reddish hair spiked in odd directions thanks to a line of stitches that started almost at his eye and ran up his temple and near mid-scalp, and to be perfectly honest, the stitches weren’t looking too great, either. The agent looked haggard, worn down, years older than his 28 years, and yet somehow, painfully young.

One wrist was bandaged in pristine white gauze, but the other drew their attention with grotesque fascination. It wasn’t in a cast, but it was clearly broken, swollen and puffy to the point it looked almost cartoonish, which wasn’t helped by the violent shade of red. But the part that made both of them stare longer than appropriate was the metal contraption around it.

Well. Around wasn’t quite the right word.

More like through.

A rod several inches long was positioned over his wrist, held aloft by four pins that disappeared into River’s skin and into the bones below.

He’d only seen an external fixator once before, and while he was aware what they were for, they still looked like instruments of torture as far as he was concerned.

“Fuck me,” Louisa muttered under her breath as she blindly reached for the visitation chair to her right. She dropped into it more than sat down, looking faintly green around the edges.

“Seems inappropriate, given the circumstances,” Lamb offered, and didn’t miss the dirty look Louisa shot him.

“Fuck off,” she added for good measure.

They probably should’ve been quiet, keeping to the respectful loud whispers that everyone seemed to use in a hospital, but Lamb honestly assumed that if the door hadn’t woken River, nothing short of a nuclear explosion would.

Instead, River’s head jerked upright at the sound of Louisa’s voice in an uncoordinated and disjointed movement that spoke of heavy duty pain meds, attempting to sit up before his body caught onto the fact that was a terrible idea, and he sank back into the overly starched fabric of the pillows. His unfettered hand came up to his ribs as he winced, which apparently pulled at the long row of stitches in his head, because that’s where his hand drifted to next.

“Fuck…” he hissed between gritted teeth and bruised lips, eyes still not open.

#asks answered #games we play #slow horses #river cartwright #louisa guy #jackson lamb #the amount of fics I have that are some variation of River has gone missing is frankly alarming #But do I find another scenario? no #I just like the idea of River having to save himself and the Horses being like 'well we WOULD'VE managed it!'#River's just really hard to detain okay #Lamb makes the comment that trying to detain him is like trying to nail jello to a tree #River is also Book River age in this rather than Jack Lowden's age #I default character ages to actors ages 99% of the time but book friends have told me He's Just a Baby

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chickensoup-4-mysoul · 16 days ago

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melodious voices (ouran host club x black fem reader) - chapter 1

chapter 1 - adagio

synopsis: you were made to share with others. it's what you love the most about music--it's an opportunity to give. but at ouran, it seems no one wants anything from an outsider.

until a group of hosts come along to help you open the door.

word count: 4,509 words warnings: use of (y/n), pry it from my cold dead hands sorry A/N: surprise, new fic! another indulgent one in many ways. reader is written as black, but please feel free to read no matter your identity! her race is mentioned as part of the story. hope you enjoy! will be crossposting with ao3 :)

Everyone is staring at you.

It’s not an outright stop and stare--that would be rude. It’s more like a double take. A quick glance followed by a lingering, curious gaze--as if seeing something out of the corner of your eye and looking again to confirm what you just saw.

It occurs in waves, with every different huddle you walk past. You feel many pairs of eyes bore into your back, no doubt staring more intently now that you’re not facing them.

Maybe it’s because you’re new?

It’s already a few weeks into the school year. More than enough time to get to know the peers that they’ll be spending the next year with. Apparently, Ouran Academy contains students from pre-school age to university years. These people had likely been attending school alongside each other since childhood. It would make sense for such a close-knit community to suss out an outsider immediately.

Still, there are three different grades, and several classes within them. Plus, this school was huge! There was no way for anyone to know every single student at this school. No way for someone to look at you and assume you haven’t been here the whole time.

Okay, maybe it’s because you’re not wearing the uniform.

You don’t know who it was that designed the uniforms, but they needed to be locked up. Hung from the neck until dead, maybe. Who on earth dreamed up that garish silhouette in that god awful sickly yellow color? The male uniform was much better—simple and sleek with a pleasant shade of blue. The female uniform consists of elements that are cute on their own, but absolutely dreadful when combined.

That being said, the girls around you wore it quite gracefully. Somehow, it looked less costumish and more like a fashion statement too refined for a mere commoner to understand.

Haha. No way, right?

You doubt you would be able to pull it off as well. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that it was much too outrageously expensive for you to afford it. It wouldn’t make sense to drop all that money on a uniform you’d only wear for a year.

Still, you hope your clothes of choice are enough to make up for it. You didn’t have to wear a uniform back at your other school, so you kinda just made up your own. You’d even gone to the lengths of sifting through Nordstrom Rack for the best quality materials.

Brown slacks hang comfortably around your legs, cuffs billowing around your ankles. The short, puffed sleeves of your blouse mimic that of the yellow uniform’s. A thin, caramel-colored sweater vest completes the look, along with a pair of comfy loafers and a pink ribbon tied beneath your collar.

Maybe you should’ve gone with a skirt? You’re definitely skewing the binary here. You were told that purchasing the yellow monstrosity wasn’t required, but your peers could be assuming that you’re breaking some kind of rule.

Everyone was staring at the pants-wearing, Nordstrom-cloaked rulebreaker.

Or maybe it’s because…

Oh, who are you kidding.

These people have probably never seen a black person in their lives.

Nerves send your manicured fingers scratching at your hairline. Your curls are pulled into a tight crown twist. You had contemplated getting braids or some other protective style, but figured the extensions wouldn’t be allowed at this school. It’d kinda be like dyeing your hair, right?

You looked nice! At least, you thought so when you’d looked in the mirror this morning. Now, you feel like you might as well have grown a second head.

Your social anxiety distracts you from just how monstrous this campus is. The moment you’d entered the front gate, you were bombarded by the smell of cherry blossoms. Your brain struggled to fathom the mirage of soft pinks, sky blues, and pristine whites. It was so beautiful, so grandiose that it set you on edge.

Pausing in your stride, you force yourself to take a deep breath. The sweet, floral scent floods your nostrils. Tension gives your body one last squeeze before you exhale it away. You level the large campus with a determined glare.

You can do this.

...

Your confidence regresses the minute you step foot inside.

The ceilings arched high above your head, making room for the tall glass windows on the walls. The interior was just as overwhelming as the exterior, you noted, as you walked through rose gold halls. For such a soft color scheme, the architecture didn't do much to ease your nerves.

Are those red carpeted stairs?? You’re kidding.

Each step falls carefully for fear of scuffing the perfectly polished floor. Your timid feet carry you to an imposing set of doors. The deep, expensive-looking slabs of wood could probably snap you up and eat you whole…

You shake the ridiculous thought from your head. Your knuckles give a timid knock against the door. A brief stretch of silence follows, before you hear a muffled “come in.”

The door feels just as heavy as it looks. It slowly relents under your push, revealing a spacious office. Your eyes wander up the walls to the tall ceilings to the ornate chandelier. The room is grounded by a sturdy, severe desk right in the middle. Its presence is outshined by the man sitting at it, your pulse quickening at the sight of him. Willing yourself not to stare too long, you bow at the waist in greeting.

“Good morning…I’m, um…“

“Ah yes, Miss (L/N). Please, come have a seat.”

The lofty friendliness of the dean’s tone eases your worries. You hastily comply with his request, sinking into a cushioned seat near his desk.

“You’re the slightest bit early. Hopefully you didn’t feel too rushed this morning.” His manner of speech is slow and deliberate—you wonder if that was his natural pattern of speech or if he was doing it for your sake.

“Not at all! I was very excited for my first day so I had to be punctual.”

The man smiles more with his eyes than with his mouth. “I see. You’re just as I thought you’d be.”

“Am I…?” You return his smile sheepishly. You hope that’s a good thing.

“Why, yes. That lovely letter you sent precedes you. Am I correct that you sent quite a few to other Ouran staff?”

Ah, the thank you notes. So he had read it after all? “Yes, sir. I sent letters to the Chairman and the rest of the Board. Not just staff at Ouran, though—everyone involved in my admittance got one.”

It had taken a lot of postage, cramped wrists, and extra hours with your Japanese tutor—but you’d made a point to write a letter to each and every person. This truly was a huge opportunity, and you were fully aware that many people were doing you a big favor.

“I know I said it in the letter, but I must express again how grateful I am. I’m so excited to be here at Ouran. I will make the absolute best of it!”

“I have no doubt. It’s a pleasure to have you, Miss (L/N). I’m sure your peers will feel the same.”

Oh yeah, you think, they’re DEFINITELY feeling the pleasure.

“Well now, I did promise you that this would be brief.” He pulls a small stack of papers from the edge of his desk and rifles through them. “Let’s get started, shall we? There’s only a few things to go over.”

...

By the time the meeting concluded, the halls had completely cleared. If they were spacious before, they looked absolutely gargantuan now. You feel more at ease after having your first conversation of the day. You didn’t choke too bad either! Hopefully, you can keep that up.

You waste no time in heading towards your assigned classroom. Meeting with the Dean gave you an excuse, but you weren’t keen on missing too much. By now, morning assembly has begun and you really wanted to meet your homeroom teacher.

“Up one flight of stairs, down to the end of the hall and to the left…”

You pass several doors, from 2-D, to 2-C, 2-B…

Ah!

Ah.

Just the sight of the door sign kinda makes your heart drop into your ass.

You tap your cheeks lightly before fussing at your clothes and hair. The cool metal of the door handle sends a zap of electricity through your fingertips. Before you can hesitate any longer, you gently pull the door open.

“…so make sure that you…hm?”

There’s a tangible shift in the room that has you wanting to sprint away. There are so many faces in your peripheral vision but you don’t dare look directly at them. A couple dozen students—no doubt staring at the new intruder. Standing at the front of the room, a plainly dressed woman pauses mid-sentence and glances at you. You see the cogs turning in her head.

“Ah, you must be (L/N), correct?”

“Y-yes ma’am.” Don’t stutter—No more stuttering!

The woman nods in understanding, checking something on her clipboard before beckoning you over. You quietly comply, very aware of the many eyes burning holes into you right now.

“Everyone, we have a special guest. She will be studying alongside you for the next year, so please welcome her. I will let her introduce herself.” You take her glance as a signal, finally regarding the class face to face.

“Good morning! My name (L/N) (F/N). I’m from America, but I’ll be here studying abroad for the next year. This is my first time in Japan, so please be patient with me as I acclimate to my new surroundings.”

You punctuate your speech with a modest bow. Hopefully that was correct? It was certainly how you’d rehearsed it. Reluctant to make eye contact with any of your classmates, you gaze at your teacher expectantly. Her stoic face breaks into a small, reassuring smile.

“Welcome to Ouran Academy, (L/N)-san. I’m Takara Ginko, your homeroom teacher. That empty desk there will be yours.” She gestures to a desk a few rows from the back. It’s in the column closest to the door. You thank her before quickly making your way to your seat. Your shoulders remain squared and chin tipped up. It’s easier to avoid eye contact that way.

Miss Takara is quick to pick up where she left off, drawing the attention away from you. You let out a soft exhale of relief. It was far from the hard part, but the introduction was a feat that you’d been dreading. You quickly tune into your teacher’s remarks, hoping you can catch up on whatever you missed.

It’s actually really nice to listen without the pressure to respond. You get to practice translation in real time without worrying about what to say. You’ve been able to follow along pretty well so far!

Your concentration is briefly stolen by a movement in the corner of your eye. At first, you write it off as your imagination. Then, a speck of dust. Then, you finally spare a glance. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, but you find yourself looking at a head of pale blonde hair. The back of that head, to be exact.

Wow, you don’t know how you didn’t notice it before. The hair looks soft and shiny, even from a distance. It couldn’t be dyed, could it? It looks so full and natural. You shake your head and force yourself to pay attention.

Soon, your first day of classes at Ouran commences. Different teachers cycle in and out of the room, each one discussing a new subject. It’s similar to what you’re used to in some ways, and different in others.

Back in America, you had just reached the final weeks of your sophomore year. Due to the difference in pacing between American and Japanese education systems, it was decided that you would be attending Ouran as a second year student. Technically, you were repeating your sophomore year, but the material you’d be studying was closer to the level of an American junior.

That explanation made your head hurt, but you figured it would work out okay. You weren’t wrong!

You’ve tunneled your vision into taking as many notes as you can. Beside your notebook is a thick packet, flipped open a few pages. The top page dons several highlighted blurbs and notes scribbled in the margins. It was the material that your classes had progressed through during the weeks you missed. After studying it to the best of your ability, you found yourself able to keep up pretty well.

That little movement happens again, and now you know for sure that it’s coming from the blonde. You sneak enough of a peek to catch his chin, tipping in your direction.

This time, when he turns to peer at you, you’re staring back at him. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed about being caught. His lips quirk into a small smile before he returns his attention to the teacher.

Oh no, he’s cute!

You blink dazedly, eventually following his example. The distance could be fooling you, but you swear there was a touch of blue in his gaze. Perhaps he was from another country too? Maybe that’s why he was so friendly to you…

It dawns on you that it was the first smile you’d gotten from a peer.

He doesn’t look at you much more after that—not during class, anyway. During class transitions, his attention wanders to you again. His full upper body rotates in his chair, no longer feeling the need to be subtle. You find yourself watching him anxiously, wondering if he intended to talk to you.

But every time he moved to leave his desk, someone would miraculously appear before him. Usually a girl, most usually a group of girls. They would instantly monopolize his attention until the next class began. The cycle continued between each class, all the way until lunch—when they managed to whisk him out of the classroom.

So the girls flocked to him, huh? Made sense. Must be some kind of ladies’ man. Still, you found yourself wanting him to move from his seat. To walk an uninterrupted path from his desk to yours. To look you in the eyes and say “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

You don’t realize that your eyes follow his entourage all the way to the door—not until they meet with someone else’s gaze. You unwittingly stare into onyx pools obscured by thin-framed glasses. Your heart leaps into your throat when you finally realize that someone’s looking back at you.

He trails behind the blonde and his female admirers, scribbling something onto a clipboard. He never pauses his movements, not even as he levels you with that observant, calculating look.

I caught you.

Heat explodes beneath the skin of your face. Averting your attention, you rest your blazing cheek on the palm of your hand.

And you had been admonishing everyone else for staring.

You stew in your embarrassment until the classroom empties out. Your sigh echoes through the silence. Should you just have lunch here? You’re not feeling quite social enough to find people to sit with.

The sun casts a rich glow through the room. A soft breeze announces itself through the waving of cherry blossom petals. It was much too beautiful outside to be cooped up all day.

Grabbing your lunch from your bag, you resolve to go out and explore. Some fresh air would make up for the lack of social interaction you were bound to suffer from. You walk briskly through the halls, willing yourself to ignore the looks being thrown your way.

...

A cherub. Pissing into the fountain.

The ugliest guffaw tumbles from your lips before you can stop it. You briefly check your surroundings, finding that no one was around to hear. The secluded area was the perfect place for some quiet time. Hedges loomed tall around the enclosure, creating a private garden. You walk along the stoned path, eyes wide with awe.

The edge of the fountain looks like the best place to perch and eat. Now that you’ve calmed down, your hunger has wormed its way to the front. You’d packed a simple lunch of meat, veggies, and rice.

Your first time navigating the grocery store was a tad overwhelming, but you managed to get everything you needed. Apparently, there was a cafeteria that you were allowed access to, but you don’t think you could handle that many people right now. Plus, you needed a few more days of a nice, home-cooked meal to quell your home sickness.

A faint rustling disrupts the peaceful silence. You squint at the hedges, trying to find the source of the sound. Suddenly, you hear a twig snap and swivel towards the noise.

Your heartbeat immediately slows when you see what it is.

A chunky white cat pads towards you, fluffy tail swishing behind it. Wow, he’s huge. He’s not shy at all, walking right up to you and headbutting your ankles.

“Well hey, buddy!” You say softly.

He was much too robust—you mean, well fed to be a stray, and his fur was soft and clean. Maybe he was someone’s outdoor cat? He presses his little pink paws onto your knees, eyeing the emptying bento box in your lap. You quickly swipe it up and close it.

“Ah-ah, I don’t think so, bud. This stuff isn’t good for you.”

He’s persistent, sticking his nose into your lap in search of crumbs. A laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Hold on, I might have something for you.”

You wipe out a small dish that you had been using for sauce. The cat’s nose(as pink as his paws) twitches when you pull a small bottle of milk from your bag. You pour a little into the dish and set it down for him.

The cat wastes no time digging in. The amusing sound of frenzied licking fills the air. Maybe he wasn’t starving, but he sure was greedy. You’re happily watching him eat when you hear footsteps.

The boy doesn’t seem to notice you, but you notice him immediately. It would be appropriate to call him a man, but he’s wearing a school uniform so he must be your age. He’s got broad shoulders, an imposing presence, and bright red hair that you can spot from a mile away.

He looks as though he’s searching for something—which must be why he hasn’t spotted you. It doesn’t take much longer, though, until he finally turns to make eye contact with you. His body shoots straight as if shocked by electricity. His face twists into something that would be scary if not for the pink flush across his cheeks.

“Erm…hello,” you offer, giving him another once over.

You realize that he’s wearing his uniform improperly. His white dress shirt is completely unbuttoned to reveal a yellow T-shirt underneath. This school must be more lenient on dress code than you thought. Your eyes light up at the small dish in his hands.

“Ah, so we had the same idea!” You smile, glancing back down at the ravenous cat. “Sorry I beat you to it, but it looks like he’s finishing mine. I bet he won’t turn down more, chunky little guy.”

Per your words, the cat has just licked up the last drop. You retrieve the empty dish from him, sending the boy an expectant look. He stares back at you dumbly, shoulders still tense.

“I’d hurry, before he runs away.” You gently prompt.

It seems to break him from his stupor. He moves swiftly but softly, pushing the dish of milk towards the hungry little guy. Said little guy doesn’t even stop to see who’s feeding him before diving into the offering.

“That’s just the best.” You force yourself to laugh quietly, for fear of disturbing his meal. The boy is quietly looming over you, eyes glued to the cat. He’s still pretty wound up. You note how his hands are clenched into trembling fists. You want to invite him to sit beside you, but you wonder if that's a bad idea.

Your first social interaction with a peer and he won’t even look at you. Geez.

You start to grow self conscious. Was he actually mad at you for feeding the cat first? Maybe this was his go-to hang out spot and you had crashed it. Or maybe he sees you like an outsider like everyone else…

Ew, why are you moping? You don’t even know if people actually think that way about you.

“…What class are you in?” You finally ask. Your eyes shoot lasers into the side of his head, silently willing him to look at you. It kinda works—his eyes flit in your direction for a millisecond before snapping forward. Pinkness lingers on his cheeks.

“…1-D.”

His voice is gravelled like a grown ass man’s. This guy was a first year?

“2-A.” You nod, satisfied to have a response from him. However, his body seizes even tighter before bending into a deep bow.

“S-senpai!” Red locks curtain his face in the position. You blink at him, struggling to register the sudden action.

“Oh…no, don’t worry about that. We don’t really care about that stuff back home—You can just call me (Y/N), if it’s not too informal for you.”

When he rises from the bow, his face is almost as red as his hair. This guy had a scary mug, but he was honestly kind of amusing. He didn’t float above everything or stick his nose up. A smile pulls at your lips. “What can I call you?”

“K…Kasanoda…Ritsu.” His eyes are doing that thing where they focus on the bridge of your nose. You can tell—you’ve done the same thing many-a time before.

“Kasanoda…that’s your last name, right? So I should call you that?” You’d rather look a bit foolish asking clarifying questions instead of offending someone by calling them the wrong name. Kasanoda gives you a hesitant nod. He hastily pushes away the flustering image of a female stranger calling him by his first name.

“Alright, Kasanoda-san. Well, we’re introduced now, so you don’t have to be so…” Awkward. Uncomfortable. Constipated-looking. “…tentative!”

You pat the stone beside you with persistence. The redhead complies, sitting hunched and wide-legged. You don’t laugh at him, even though you want to.

It’s not exactly laughing at him. You’re just delighted to talk to someone so genuinely themselves. This guy probably couldn’t be ingenuine if he tried.

“Oh my gosh, look.” You gasp.

He follows your command and looks back at your feline friend. The cat has finished the remnants of the milk and the bottom half of his face is completely soaked. It looks like he has a wet, milky goatee and mustache combo. A squeal keens from the back of your throat. Kasanoda doesn’t express his excitement as girlishly, but his body communicates in earnest. You can read it in the way he leans forward, eyes rapt and lips pressed in a thin line.

He was as much of a fan of cute cats as you were!

His movement seems to draw the cat’s attention…in a negative way. The two make eye contact for the first time and the cat lets out a frightened yowl, tucking its tail and scampering away. Its fluffy white tail disappears into the lush greenery.

“Aw, darn. I hope he finds a way to clean his face, or he’s gonna get stinky.” You start to pack up your things, aware of your time coming to a close. It felt criminal to go back inside on such a beautiful day, but classes awaited you. Maybe Kasanoda would like to walk back with you? You go to ask him, but pause once you take in his state.

His red locks obscure his face, but you make out the sharp line of his clenching jaw. His hands are squeezed back into those fists. You worry about his fingernails cutting into his palms.

“Kasanoda-san…?”

Your careful voice seems to snap him out of something. His shoulders drop with a dejected sigh. “S’my fault. I scared it away.”

Oh my god. That’s what he was brooding about??? Your grin wobbles from stifled laughter.

“Don’t worry about it! Cats are usually pretty skittish. He was just using us for food—not that I mind.”

Your words don’t cheer him up as quickly as you’d hoped. He does make eye contact with you, though. His sulking is much more evident in his brown eyes. “It’s always like this. With pets and people. Everyone’s scared o’ me.”

You take in his words, looking over him once more. His bright hair, his popped collar, his permanently furrowed brow. The image flashes through your mind of your peers, staring at you with an unreadable look in their eyes. Was it fear?

Did everyone fear you?

“Let’s walk back together, okay? Lunch is almost over.”

Kasanoda startles at that, eyeing you incredulously. You’re standing over him now, and you’re actually quite the imposing presence. Your confident stance indicates that “no” will not be taken for an answer. You…

You didn’t seem scared of him at all.

“R-right. Okay.”

His movements are timid as he follows behind you. The thought dawns on him, wondering where exactly you came from. He hadn’t noticed you over the past few weeks, but surely he would’ve. Had you been here the whole time?

Now, as he finally took the time to see you, he feels that you couldn’t have been. You stood out, even more than he did. The sun bounced off of the cream colors you wore, creating a golden glow on your brown skin.

Suddenly, his mind is wandering into some embarrassing territory, and he has to avert his gaze once more. You don’t bother him about it, attributing it to shyness. It begins as a quiet walk, until Kasanoda’s the one that breaks the silence. You’re overjoyed when he mentions your “back home” comment and asks where home is.

You give him a little background about how you’re from America and today’s your first day at Ouran. So you haven’t been here the whole time, he thinks. You make small talk with him about the first weeks of school. Obviously, they’ve been a bit rough because everyone’s scared of him—but he says he enjoys the nature on campus, especially the animals.

“They just need time to get to know you.” You encourage him. “I think you’ll have plenty friends in no time. You’ve got me!”

You’re plenty aware of how forward you’re being. Kasanoda’s earnest nature has you wanting to be sincere in return. Still, you keep your eyes forward, merciful enough not to bombard him with direct eye contact. Though, if you had, you’d catch an eyeful of the redhead’s blushing, awestruck visage.

Passersby spot Kasanoda and cower in fear. Others see you and observe curiously, unable to find the manners to look away.

But amidst your idle chatter, neither of you seem to notice.

#ouran high school host club #ouran host club #ouran high school host club x reader #ohshc #ohshc x reader #ritsu kasanoda #ritsu kasanoda x reader #tamaki suoh #tamaki suoh x reader #kyoya ootori #kyoya ootori x reader #kyoya x reader #tamaki x reader #black reader #ouran host club x reader #writing tag

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