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hyper-fixates · 3 months ago

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Time After Time

Logan Howlett/Wolverine x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 15.2k never let me near him again

Tags/warnings: age-gap due to logan’s mutation (reader’s age not specified), mutant!reader, unprotected sex, teasing, friends to lovers, explicit language, dry humping, storm cameos, fluff, domesticity, the claws come out when he’s close (👁️👁️), detailed descriptions & scenes of nightmares/trauma/PTSD/panic attacks, one (1) ass smack, alcohol consumption, vomiting, biting/marking, angst, soft!logan, creampie, groping/touching, use of “baby” once, aftercare, yearning (kindly let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: 4 times you end up in Logan’s bed, and the 1 time he does something about it.

Notes: this falls somewhere in between “which could mean nothing” and “we can fix each other” 🫡 (written with a mix of X1 & X2 logan!)

Your heart, despite always being alive and beating, sometimes wakes up before you.

You can feel it before your eyes even have a chance to open. It jolts your sleep-ridden body and collapses your lungs without giving your brain a chance to fight against it. Muscles and limbs feel lifeless and detached from your body, shaking from the sleep that your heart knows wasn’t completely dreamless.

You kick the blankets off of yourself and sit up in a panic, trying to regain some control of your sudden erratic breaths while bringing a lethargic hand to your heaving chest in hopes to ground yourself. It never works.

Maybe your ribs are shrinking and squeezing your lungs, making you delirious from the lack of oxygen, but you know that’s not the case. Your heart feels like it’s being squeezed and broken into a million tiny pieces.

No part of your body feels real, yet you keep your hand on your chest as firmly as you can, trying to focus on controlling the pounding of your heart that’s working so hard with each beat that it hurts.

“Fuck. Fuck,” you choke out, feeling the tears finally breach and roll down your cheeks as your nervous system catches up to what’s happening.

Panic. It’s all panic.

You can’t do anything but sit there and let the tears hit the freshly-washed fitted sheet on your bed. So you let it happen. Nothing can stop it.

Trauma is such a fickle thing. One moment you’re fine, and then the next, your heart is screaming at you and forcing your body to process something at 4 a.m. on a random Friday when all you wanted was some goddamn sleep.

There is no choice. Your mind doesn’t give you one.

The tremors subside slowly after a few minutes, giving you the feeling back to your arms and legs, albeit minimal.

You slide to sit at the edge of your bed, resting an elbow on your thigh and setting your chin into your palm with a defeated, yet shaky, huff.

You look to your window and see that the sun hasn’t even started to rise yet. You’ll be up for the rest of the foreseeable morning, but there’s not much to do so early besides wander aimlessly and think…then think some more.

You’re confident the professor isn’t even awake at this hour, which says enough about your state. You would typically go visit Storm for some comfort, but she’s been gone fuck-knows-where with Hank and Scott until Sunday at the latest. Thanks, Charles.

A questionable, and probably manic, decision comes to mind. One that’s only two doors down, one over from Storm.

Your impulsive feet make up your mind for you. The cold hardwood floor shocking you further into consciousness as if your heart didn’t do a good enough job.

You tiptoe a couple steps down the hall, forcing yourself to turn and face the large wooden door when you reach it. You just stand there staring at it, unknocking, analyzing the wood grains, suddenly very interested in what type of wood it is and what stain was used to—

“Uh. Are you okay?”

You refocus your eyes onto the man now standing in front of you in the doorway, adorning a barely-zipped school hoodie and black sweats.

“Huh?” You blink a few times, disoriented.

Logan quirks a brow, looking you up and down cautiously. “Are you okay?” He asks again, offering a look of concern—or maybe confusion—that you haven’t seen often. A look that’s never needed to be directed towards you.

You come back to yourself. “But—I…didn’t knock,” you respond, looking equally as confused as him as you point to the door.

He leans against the edge of the door, face softening. “I could smell you before you passed Storm’s room,” he clarifies, a hint of reluctance in his tone. Oh.

You feel like a child who has just gained awareness, all too conscious of your situation.

“You’re…awake?” Is all you manage despite probably needing to say much more than that to explain just why exactly you’re standing outside Logan’s room at 4 a.m.

“So are you,” he counters with a curious look. “So let me ask again. Are you okay?” He locks his eyes on yours, probably in hopes to understand why the fuck you’re outside his room at 4 a.m.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” you say, and it’s the truth.

You should probably be embarrassed. You show up at Logan’s door unannounced, dressed in a flimsy shirt and matching sweats—thanks, Charles—that can’t fully hide the remaining quivers throughout your body.

Logan pulls his lips together at your admission. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head trying to figure you out.

“Can’t sleep?” He questions, but he knows he’s right.

“Yeah.” You don’t know why you’re making it Logan’s problem, though. Sure, he happens to be awake, but maybe this is all too personal to push on the guy who’s seemingly all pride and no solicitude most of the time.

It’s not that he’s not a good, nice guy, but you don’t know how you would define your relationship, or lack of.

You know each other well enough from existing in the same space over the past couple months, being part of the same “team”, but it’s nothing to call a close friendship like you and Storm. He’s a bit of a rare species in the mansion, not really lingering around.

He cocks his head in a half shrug, the soft points in his hair broken by sleep shake gently with the movement.

“I don’t think I can help you,” he says wearily. “I’m no better. Clearly.” He gestures between you, drawing attention to the fact that you’re both awake. The helpless cannot help the helpless.

“Oh—no, I’m not looking for help. I think I’m beyond that at this point,” you laugh but stop yourself short when Logan doesn’t follow. Tough crowd.

“I, uh, don’t actually know what I’m looking for,” you offer.

You knit your brows together in thought, still wondering why the fuck you’re here. Comfort? Entertainment? Some other unknown third thing?

“I’m not really used to Storm being gone for so long,” you admit. “I just feel…all over the place, I guess.”

Logan considers your vulnerability for a beat, eyes flicking to yours. “I can hear you sometimes,” he says, a knowing—almost sympathetic—look on his face. “We have the same problem.”

You go cold, any expression you had on your face sliding away. You wish the floor could swallow you right now. You know things have been getting worse recently, but you didn’t think anyone could hear that fact. Maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise from someone who could smell you from down the hallway.

He steps back, pulling his door open further. An invitation.

You don’t move right away. Could this be a false awakening? You’re not sure what you expected when you came to his door, but you also didn’t expect him to open it without you knocking, so you have to suspend disbelief for now. You figured he’d offer a few words of advice and dismiss you, or maybe even tell you to fuck off, but he opened his door wider for you. But you didn’t exactly think any of it through in the first place anyway.

You force your feet to carry you into Logan’s room. It’s not much different from yours; scarce belongings, minimal decor, a small work desk, brown curtains that are drawn back, and a bed.

“Were you, uh…sleeping before I came?” You sit on the unmade bed, nothing noticeably different from it compared to yours.

He shuts the door quietly, moving to the small desk across the room and filing some scattered papers together neatly.

“Trying to,” he says, keeping his gaze on the desk.

Fucking duh. “Sorry if I disturbed you,” you wince to yourself.

You see him briefly shake his head at your unnecessary apology. “I had to get up anyway.” His voice is still gravelly from sleep.

It feels like you’re invading his space. But he invited you in. How many others have had the opportunity to be in here? Probably too many. There’s nothing to make this special.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” you sigh, flopping back on his bed defeated. Simply overwhelmed with the uncontrollable repercussions of your mutation.

“Try to sleep. If you want,” he offers, moving to the edge of the bed. “It’s easier said than done, but I have to meet with Charles in an hour.” It’s gruff, but he’s sincere.

Maybe the professor is awake after all.

You roll your head to the side to look at him. Was he really offering for you to stay in his bed?

“Oh, wow…uh, sure.” It comes off as more of a question, but he quirks his brows in acknowledgment, turning back to the desk and collecting a handful of other miscellaneous papers.

“I have to head downstairs and take care of some things. Stay as long as you need,” he says, zipping his sweater the rest of the way up. Thank God in heaven.

A shy “thanks” is all you manage as you situate yourself on the bed.

Is this fucking weird? You could name a handful of others in the mansion right this second that would kill without hesitation to be where you are. They’d probably kill you specifically to get it. It’s not much of a secret that Logan is the subject of almost all students’ desires. He knows it, too.

“See you later,” he adds, his lips forming the slightest hint of a caring smile as he sees himself out. You throw one back before the door clicks shut.

Should you be offended that he didn’t stay? That he left so quickly? No, no, he can’t. He couldn’t. Charles is expecting him. The timing is just horrid. But now you’re just…alone…in Logan’s room, expected to sleep because of a random act of kindness in his heart.

Lying in his bed instead of yours is an odd sensation. The sheets and mattress are exactly the same, the pillows are just as fluffy, yet it feels unalike.

You flop your head on his pillow, tugging the blankets up to your chin. Your fingers graze something by your hip as you settle in, making you push the blanket back down. Leaning over, you see three puncture marks in the mattress, fraying the bedsheet material into feather-soft strands around the deep holes.

Your eyes widen, remembering his words before he invited you in: “We have the same problem.”

Part of your heart fractures for the second time today. Your eyes cross over to the other side of you, seeing a matching set of holes just below the pillow. It’s suddenly easy to understand why no one besides him has been seen coming and going from this room in a while. One day, things just seemed to change.

Maybe his act of kindness was an act of mercy. Trauma will always find you, and it will make sure you feel it until you either destroy it or it destroys you.

Even the Wolverine isn’t an exception.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

The gold liquid is gone from the glass as quickly as it was poured.

Your throat clenches and protests the swallow as you try to suppress the urge to gag. You gently set the shot glass back on the counter, watching Storm chase with a piece of lime that does nothing to help the puckered face she makes from the tequila.

“No more, no more. I can’t.” Your arms anchor you to the counter to stop yourself from swaying too much.

Storm nods, still fighting off the sourness with furrowed brows and a scrunched nose. You giggle at her when she quickly screws the cap back on the bottle, sliding it out of reach.

“You’re a bad influence,” she scolds as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“No—I’m under the influence,” you counter, a playful smile on your lips. “There’s a difference. You still have your own free will.”

Storm rolls her eyes so hard you only see the whites of them. “We have training tomorrow,” she slurs. “Charles will not be happy if we show up half-conscious.” She rounds the counter to you, grabbing your shoulders for stability, and you do the same.

“He’ll be lucky if we show up at all,” you mumble.

The dim kitchen lighting embraces the two of you, the rest of the mansion blanketed in darkness with everyone fast asleep—like you both should be.

You close your eyes with a roll of your neck, more giggles falling through your lips as you clumsily grab onto Storm and rock and sway together for a moment, the alcohol quickly catching up to your motor skills. It feels like you’re spinning through time and space, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel fucking euphoric. At this rate, neither of you will be able to make it back to your rooms.

“Am I interrupting something?”

You lose a bit of your balance as you try to find the resonant voice, eyes shooting open. Storm unintentionally startles and stumbles away from you, white hair also jumping from the excitement.

You grab onto the counter again, sucking in a deep breath. “Fuck, don’t do that,” you growl through your teeth, a hand on your chest as you try to calm yourself.

“Don’t do what? Come to the shared kitchen to grab a drink?” Logan huffs a laugh, an amused smile creeps to his lips as he takes in your drunk and shaken state from the entryway.

“Doesn’t anyone sleep in this place?” He mumbles to himself.

“And with that, I’m done for the night,” Storm chuckles, fixing her hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her eyes lock intensely on yours, index finger firmly poking the middle of your chest to make her point for you to show up to training very clear.

“See you, Logan,” she dismisses, stumbling as she passes him.

Logan shakes his head, still smiling. He steps to the fridge, opening the double doors and plucking a bottle of soda from the bottom shelf. No alcohol is readily available in the communal fridge because, after all, you’re all in a school full of kids, so Storm had to get creative; Scott will be missing a rather large bottle from the now not-so-secret stash in his room.

As the alcohol continues to settle in you, you feel more and more lightheaded as it brings you to a new level of euphoria again. You only know this because watching Logan pop the cap of his drink with mindless ease feels a little more exciting than it would be if you were sober. But you’re not sober, and that’s the problem.

“Not gonna follow Storm?” He asks, taking a generous sip from the bottle as he casually places his free hand on the counter to lean on across from you.

A tight smile forms, mostly to yourself. “I don’t think I can make it down the hall,” you laugh in embarrassment. Maybe that last shot was one too many, and it’s not even fully done working its magic yet.

Logan raises a brow. “Want some help?” There’s no judgement in his tone like you expect. Then again, you don’t know what the fuck to expect from him.

Your already half-closed eyes, blurry and unfocused, meet his hazel ones in interest. Another favour?

It’s been two weeks since he let you sleep off the nightmares in his bed. Two weeks since you learned he’s burdened with them, too. You traced the holes in the mattress over and over before you eventually fell asleep, wondering what—or who—could have hurt him so badly. He plays it off cool; you wouldn’t suspect anything from talking to him. The same could probably be said about you.

“I didn’t know wolverine’s were chivalrous,” you tease.

The yellow hue of the lights dance over the quaffed points in his hair, making them appear sharper than usual. You would never admit it, especially to him, but you adore them. They give him an absurd amount of character that you’d expect a guy like him to not care about.

You’re not exactly complaining about the fitting grey tank-top he has on either.

“Not overly,” he plays along, taking another mouthful of the fizzy drink. “I like to think I’m special,” he says quieter.

“Maybe you are,” you say as you try and straighten yourself to see if you can stand unassisted.

The world tilts as you stand to your full height, eyes rolling into your head from the wave of dizziness. “Wow, okay,” you say to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the spinning. How many shots did you have again?

A warm hand presses between your shoulders. “Woah, nice and easy. Nice and easy.” Logan appears by your side to steady you, other hand grabbing your elbow to pull you straight. You wobble in his grip, letting him guide your useless, alcohol-ridden body.

His hand on your back rubs a few small, comforting circles as you work to regain your bearings. He watches your expressions intently, looking for the right moment to get you moving back to your room safe and sound.

Your arm crosses over your body out of instinct to grab the hand he has on your elbow for extra support.

“Are you okay?” He asks. He seems to ask you that a lot.

You lean into him, your shoulder to his chest, and you can feel the blackout creeping up on you like humidity from a thunderstorm—it’s usually too late to do anything once you notice it.

“I drank a lot,” you laugh deeply, rolling your head onto his shoulder to look up at him.

He looks so much more delicate under the ambient lights—his usual defined features have shifted and melted him into someone that doesn’t look like they should be a feared animal out in the world.

Logan all but cradles you, that same look of concern crossing his features from the night you went to his door. The only difference is that you’ve had a generous amount of tequila—and are currently being kept alert by the hot touch of his hands. That’s new.

“Can you walk?” He holds your squinty eye contact, probably searching for any signs of a coherent thought behind the blissful expression on your face. “Or will I have to carry you?” He muses, a hint of a smile crosses his lips as his hand moves up to gently rub over your shoulders.

Drunk you likes the sound of anything relating to Logan keeping his hands on you right now. You wonder what sober you would think.

“I’m not gonna tell you no, but it feels like I’m floating in a bubble that won’t stop spinning,” you hum as you let the sensation consume your senses. “I might fly away.” You dip your head back off of his shoulder in amusement as you laugh again.

“Yeah, you’re fucked up,” he mumbles lovingly. Just like anyone else who’s concerned for your well-being would.

“Hey, kitty cat—I’m perfectly buzzed,” you emphasize the teasing nickname, narrowing your eyes at him sternly as you bring your gaze back to his in defence.

“‘Kitty cat’? Really?” He snorts. “I think you’re past your bedtime by three drinks,” he remarks back with equal levity.

“Then take me to bed if you’re so concerned,” you sigh dramatically, going limp in his arms to make your point.

Truthfully, you’re probably past your bedtime by five shots. But he doesn’t need to know that. You just know that you can’t control your limbs like you were able to ten minutes ago.

“Maybe I will.” You don’t see it, but he does his quick little eye roll that you’ve seen pointed towards Scott too many times.

He slides the hand on your elbow down to the backs of your knees, pulling you up off the floor and into his chest as you fall into the arm that was rubbing your back.

Oh, so it’s gonna be like that.

An excited—or maybe shocked—noise escapes your mouth as he adjusts you in his arms. You extend your right arm up and over his shoulder to hug his neck and keep yourself stable.

The trip to your room isn’t one that should take long, but each sway from Logan’s steps goes straight to your stomach in waves of queasiness. It feels like forever before you feel him bend awkwardly to turn your doorknob.

You’re fighting to keep yourself conscious the entire time, not wanting to regret missing the feeling of being in his arms.

The room is only lit by the silver moonlight creeping through the window. It’s hard to distinguish anything through your bleary eyes besides Logan’s look of determination to get you in your bed.

He leans down, shuffling you out of his arms and onto the mattress as swiftly as possible. The care of it all pokes at your heart.

He silently goes around each corner of the bed adjusting the blankets. It may be dark, but the moonlight highlights the peaks of his shoulders as he moves. Your eyes might be involuntarily half-shut, but that doesn’t stop you from staring.

You’re now probably no better than every other mutant in this school.

“Logan,” you start before you can fully process the foolish thing you’re about to say next.

He rounds the bed back to the side you’re huddled on, looking down on you. “Yeah?” The subtle jingle of his dog tag pierces the quiet that’s lingering in the room.

You part your lips to speak but the words die in your throat. They’re replaced by a flood of saliva that has you sitting up at a speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone as intoxicated as you. You cover your mouth with your hand, feeling your stomach churning and finally rejecting the tequila.

You suddenly feel very awake.

“Hey, hey.” Logan squats down in front of you with his already permanently-furrowed brows pinched closer together than you’ve ever seen before, a hand coming to your shoulder in concern. “What—”

“Bathroom,” you mumble through your palm, eyes rolling shut at the nausea.

He doesn’t say another word. He pulls you to your feet by your arms, walking behind you fiercely with his hands gripping your shoulders to guide you to the small bathroom across the room.

You push the door open, falling to your knees in the darkness over the toilet as the mistakes from the night expel themselves from your body through rounds of coughing and gagging. He lingers in the doorway, keeping an eye on you but still giving you privacy.

“Fuck,” you cough, resting your warm forehead on your hand as you slump against the toilet. That definitely sobered you up fast.

Exhaustion hits you like a truck. “Logan…” you croak from your crumpled position on the tile floor.

He steps in, bending down again to reach your height. You can barely make out the shadow of him in the fading moonlight.

“Just…help me back to bed,” you groan, reaching for his arm as you use the toilet seat to push yourself the rest of the way up. You stumble against him as you try to make it back through the doorway.

He guides you to the bed the same way he did to the bathroom—steering you from behind.

“I’m gonna get you some water,” he says as you settle back into bed, head hitting the pillow with a quiet thud. “Even though you did this to yourself.”

“Fuck off,” you groan.

You close your eyes, hearing his footsteps fade back toward the bathroom. You hear the tap run for a couple seconds before he’s next to you again, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Drink. All of it,” he says firmly, holding the cup out to you.

You sit back up slowly, no doubt lethargic, an unimpressed look on your face that earns you a raised brow that tells you there’s no room to object.

You finish the cup in four mouthfuls, handing it back to him. “Thanks.”

You fall back onto the pillow, no longer feeling like you’re travelling through space and time.

The clothes you’re in are close enough to pyjamas. There’s no sense in undressing in front of Logan, especially with what you were about to say to him before you were rudely interrupted by the consequences of your own actions.

He returns the cup to the bathroom and you pull the blanket over your waist as you hopefully settle in for the rest of the night. You owe him big time for this. The thought of just how exactly you’ll manage that fills you with anxiety.

You turn on your side, fingers sliding over the mattress with the movement. They graze familiar strands of feather-soft fabric by the pillow.

This is Logan’s room. Are you just that drunk that you couldn’t tell the difference when he brought you in? Or are your rooms just that similar to each other?

You dip a finger in one of the three holes, hearing the bathroom door click shut as Logan makes his way back.

“Why am I in your bed?” You see him rustling through some drawers of clothing by the small desk, but he stops when you finish your question.

“You can’t take care of yourself tonight,” he says. “You’re too drunk.” He pulls the grey tank-top off, stuffing it in one of the drawers and shutting it.

You sit up at that, head still foggy and tipsy, watching him move to the foot of the bed across from you. You try to focus your eyes on anything but his bare chest and the dark hair that adorns it and trails down past the waistband of his sweats. His hair is somehow even more wild from mindlessly pulling the tank-top over his head.

“Ah. I was gonna ask you to stay anyway,” you reveal, almost whispering the bold confession.

You were planning to ask before the tequila decided to make another appearance, but maybe doing it this way isn’t so bad either. He did all the heavy-lifting.

A modest, tight-lipped smile graces his lips. “I think you still have some tequila to sleep off.”

Whether or not you still have some shots in your system, what you feel and want right now is real. It’s not influenced by anything besides some mild andronitis created by the fact that you share a common struggle.

“Is it…safe? To share a bed?” The most coherent thought you’ve had all night makes him stiffen from your sudden nervous tone. Your body could easily replace the mattress and become a new home for the deep punctures.

Your eyelids have been fighting against being pulled shut by alcohol-induced drowsiness, yet your eyes are wider than they’ve been all night in this moment.

You’re sat right in the middle of the bed and Logan comes around to the right, sitting on the edge of the mattress to come down to your level.

“You’re just gonna have to trust me.” His eyes are imploring and apologetic all at once. He understands the prospect of even having you here in the first place.

You nod, sliding over to the left to give him more room.

Logan wouldn’t put you in harms way, you reason with yourself. He wouldn’t risk potentially killing someone, especially a fellow mutant, if he wasn’t absolutely sure of his mental state. But you also don’t really know his demons.

You roll onto your right side, tugging the blanket up to your chin in comfort. “Why haven’t you been given a new mattress?” You ask as he turns to face you in the same position, his half of the blanket resting at his hip.

The bed dips significantly on his side, almost encouraging you to roll over against him.

“Forgot to ask,” he says quietly, running his right hand through his hair to push the shorter strands off his forehead.

From his tone you can decipher that he actually means “can’t be bothered.” It’s a devastating thing to imagine just how many he goes through, anyway. He probably doesn’t see the point in replacing something that will inevitably have the same fate as the others.

There has to be less than an arms length between you two. It’s a surreal situation to be in considering what you thought you knew about him. A recluse. Standoffish. Maybe it’s all a fluke and the alcohol is severely fucking with your perception of what’s actually happening.

“Thanks for everything,” you whisper as if someone else will overhear.

“Get some sleep,” he insists, rolling onto his back. You do the same.

You stare at the blank ceiling for a while, noticing the exact moment Logan falls asleep; his breathing grows slow and his body runs even hotter than before.

You think about how he could wake at any moment, claws accidentally sliding right through your stomach from a nightmare or two. You imagine all the others that have been in your position—if they felt scared, if they even knew.

He asked you to trust him, and that should be enough.

There is a body full of secrets and hurt sleeping undisturbed next to you with the ability to withstand and regenerate from any physical injury, yet there’s something that hasn’t allowed the same to be done for his mind.

━━━━

The bright amber sun hits your closed eyes through the window, making you roll your head away onto the other side of the cool pillow.

You want more sleep. Your head feels like a bag of bricks and your body feels like it got beat with them.

You stretch a leg out, gently grazing something solid with your foot. Your eyes shoot open, the night coming back to you as you drift into consciousness. Logan.

You shoot up, bouncing a little from the momentum.

Logan startles next to you, clearly interrupted from a deep sleep. “What the fuck…” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face, not seeming interested in making a move to sit up with you.

“What time is it?” Your eyes bounce around the room looking for a clock.

He grunts, reaching for a watch on the nightstand. “Seven-forty.”

You needed to be in the Danger Room for 7 o’clock.

“Fuck!” You rip the blanket off, almost tripping as you run to the bathroom.

Logan also wants to roll back over and go back to sleep, but he knows he won’t be able to. He doesn’t work like that. So he just lays there, listening to you swear and make a mess of his bathroom as the clattering of fuck-knows-what fills the room.

The surprise of how well he slept makes him feel uneasy. Although it definitely wasn’t eight hours, it was uninterrupted. He doesn’t want to credit that to you, though. He wants to believe that he’s getting better overall, and maybe he is, so he can’t offer you any flattery in his mind.

Another distant “fuck” escapes the bathroom, pulling him out of his thoughts. You exit a few minutes later, as refreshed and presentable as you could get yourself, and the sight of Logan still in bed makes something in you ache for another moment of feeling him care and tend to you. Maybe that’s your hangover talking.

“Thanks again. I’ll see you around,” you say hurriedly, offering an apologetic smile as you turn the doorknob to leave.

“Good luck with Charles.” It’s a genuine advisory. Fuck. You’ll be so incredibly lucky if he doesn’t give you more than a stern lecture in front of everyone.

You take a deep breath in and slip out of Logan’s room. There’s not a single cut, mark, or scratch on you, just like he promised.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“I was told it’ll take a day to fix,” Storm explains with a shrug. “You’ll have to find somewhere or someone to room with until tomorrow. Jean already offered to have me stay with her.” A contrite look passes over her face.

You stand outside your rooms, staring in at the remnants of the mess caused by two terrakinetic kids fucking around in the courtyard when they weren’t supposed to be. They somehow managed to throw, or launch, sizeable tree branches right through each of your windows. Of course it wasn’t on purpose, but the Danger Room exists for a reason—to avoid mishaps like this.

Shards of glass and fragments of wood splatter your floors. The branches are hanging half-way out both of your windows, caught on the window sills and bobbing in the evening summer wind. The kids are extremely fortunate that neither of you were in your rooms when it happened.

“It’s fine. It’s just one night,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes in frustration. You don’t love how quickly your mind picks out who to go to. It’s already nearing 11 p.m., so you have to work fast.

Storm squeezes your shoulder in comfort. “The living room is always free,” she suggests with a remorseful smile.

But you don’t want the living room. Stiff couches mixed with students clamouring and passing by at the crack of dawn isn’t exactly a recipe for a good nights rest. As if you usually get one, anyway.

“Not a fucking chance,” you laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you say again, dismissing her worries. You wish her goodnight when she steps by you to head towards Jean’s room at the very end of the hall.

You glare at the mess in your room, not daring to step in. The amount of shattered glass everywhere makes the floor look like a body of water from the reflections of the pale moonlight bouncing and refracting off of the jagged shards.

“Fuck,” you spit through your teeth, solely to yourself.

Not even a full week after Logan saw you at your worst, you’re going to go back and ask for the left side of his bed. Shameless.

You don’t have much of a choice; you’re not comfortable having it be anyone else. It’s only because Logan saw you at your worst that you feel he’s the most logical choice. Already having shared a bed with him this week may also have some weight in your decision.

You take the few self-assured steps to his room, once again standing in front of his door. This time you feel more confident in approaching the Wolverine in his den.

You knock three times, the piercing sound echoing through the hall.

“You start to miss me or what?” A bare chest enters your view. You note the dog tag hanging from his neck again before you find his unyielding gaze full of ambiguity, wondering why you’re here. Again.

You blink at him slowly in hilarity. “Ha, funny. Can I stay with you tonight?” You ask flatly, not thrilled with the situation, but not completely displeased with being here now. “My window—”

“I know what happened,” he interrupts. “Figured you’d go for the couch in the living room.” He looks at you more pointedly with teasing suspicion.

“I think you know no one would ever willingly choose to sleep out there,” you reason, running a hand over your face in both shame and defeat.

He makes a face that tells you “touché” and you smirk in satisfaction. “If you don’t mind giving up half of your bed again, I would really appreciate it. I promise I’m not trying to make this a habit,” you sigh. Spending the night in Logan’s bed three times in the past month has to be a record for anyone recently.

“I don’t think it would be a bad habit,” he argues. Oh. “C’mon.” He gives a jerk of his head to allow you in, his tufts of his hair bristling with the quick movement.

“Thanks,” you squeak. He wants you here?

He shuts the door behind you, following you to the bed that’s clearly already had him in it. The blanket rests in waves on the mattress that remind you of just how human Logan is despite his reputation and image.

“Do you have an early morning?” You ask, slipping under the blanket.

“No. Charles was feeling nice for once,” he raises his tone sarcastically to rag on Charles’ judgement, which has clearly been a much needed one before now.

“Not an early bird?” You roll onto your right side like last time, facing him as he settles on his back with a deep breath. The bed sinks in again where he lays, your body wanting to give in to the laws of gravity and fall into him.

“Fuck no,” he laughs lightly, eyes crinkling around the corners. It’s self-deprecating, but it’s still a genuine laugh. The condescension from it lingers in the air, all directed at himself in a way that tells you he’s thinking about how inconceivably fucked up he is.

The last time he had a decent sleep was when you were drunk in his bed a few days ago.

“People like us don’t usually get the pleasure of a full eight hours,” he notes, sliding his gaze to yours for a fraction of a second.

He props an arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest and idly twisting the dog tag between his fingers. You watch the thin piece of steel slide and flip easily, the chain tinkling with every movement.

People like us.

“You mean mutants,” you state. You see his jaw tense in what little light there is from the half-moon tonight.

You see his brows pull together. “Yeah.” He has a point.

You think about the mutants you know, how they all have some horrific story about their gifts or family, or both. How they either were shamed by society or experimented on like rats.

The scenarios are endless. If you can think of it, some mutant has probably lived it.

Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach. You and Logan are not isolated or special cases, but you’ve already shared a moment of vulnerability with him when you came to his door all those weeks ago seeking solace for the same thing he fights with: the inescapable ability of remembering.

You pull the blanket tighter against you. “I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”

He turns his head to you, confusion written on his face. “What?” He stops toying with the dog tag.

“Your claws. I trust you.” You didn’t feel like you were in immediate danger that first night, but you want to reassure him anyway. Or maybe you’re reassuring yourself.

He hasn’t had to say a single word for you to know his nightmares trigger something instinctive and combative that’s been hardwired into his DNA. In this case, it’s his claws needing to find a home in his mattresses, where another body could potentially lay one night. Like yours is right now.

You noticed the lack of holes in this mattress when you first got to the bed. Maybe you mentioning them last time was enough for him to finally request a new one.

Logan knows he shouldn’t make promises he doesn’t know he’ll be able to keep, but he wants to keep you here tonight, so he improvises. He abandons the dog tag between his fingers completely, turning onto his side and reaching to find your hand under the blanket. You meet him halfway, sliding your fingers between his as your palms lay flat on the bed.

A smile tugs at your lips for a moment. He watches your interlinked fingers, observing the size difference, wondering if he really just did that—and why.

You assume it’s his way of saying “thank you” for your trust when you probably shouldn’t be putting that much into him.

“Does it hurt?” You whisper, pulling your fingers out from his just enough to caress the divets between his knuckles that conceal the claws.

He knows what you’re asking. “Every time.” He softly pushes his fingers back into yours, squeezing a little.

There’s a deadly stillness in the room despite his window being cracked. You both know you’re one in the same in a way, and that’s a connection that Logan hasn’t let himself experience. Not everyone likes looking in a mirror.

To be truly seen by someone, wholly, without judgement or fear, is what he deserves.

“What are you?” He asks, rubbing his index finger back and forth along the top of your hand. “Telekinetic? Psychic?” His curious voice grows quiet, hazel eyes fascinated with you and your lack of a physical mutation, at least nothing that he can see.

It never occurred to you that he didn’t know your mutation, or that you’ve never told him. It was never needed, but it seems unfair that you know about his when he wasn’t the one who told you.

“Ha, close.” Your eyes twinkle as you notice how intently he’s listening. “Psychometric,” you correct, watching his forehead crease.

“Sounds like math,” he quips, readjusting his head on the pillow. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat he’s putting off.

You laugh quietly. “No, it’s extrasensory perception. It lets me see the history of any object or person I touch, but only if I accept the energy,” you explain.

You watch his eyes narrow and you know what he’s thinking, so you quickly interject as he begins to pull his hand out from yours. “I need to touch a pulse point to be able to see anything,” you reassure, feeling his fingers slide back against yours. “The heart remembers everything,” you clarify.

The catch? The person’s memories and past stay with you after you see them. It’s become hard to distinguish what memories are yours or someone else’s. They all become intertwined. Good or bad, violent or gentle. You see it all, and then it’s part of you. Forever.

“I haven’t looked. I promise.”

“Good. You don’t need to see that shit,” he huffs, eyes wandering over your face. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he’s a little startled for the first time in a while.

“I’m sure I’ve seen it all,” you state. It’s probably not far off from the truth. Your gift came when you were all too young, and plenty of time has passed since then for you to rack up this amount of damage from near-strangers and their lives.

“No, you haven’t.” A sure expression passes over him, shaking his head as best as he can against the pillow.

“Then I’ll count myself lucky,” you say softly. You have no idea what Logan has experienced, but his demeanor makes you want to stay curious. Not everything needs to be known, and you’re definitely not entitled to it.

A faint smile appears on his lips, then it’s gone just as quick. “Get some sleep,” he rasps. He turns onto his back and his hand abandons yours.

It’s a complete repeat of last time.

Something twinges in your heart, and you don’t like it. What exactly had you expected from Logan? He’s just doing you a courtesy by letting you stay here for the night. Nothing more. And that’s what you should expect: nothing.

The hum of crickets outside eventually lulls you into a dead sleep. It’s heavy and deep, not a single muscle twitching in your body. Logan breathes steadily next to you, a hand on his chest as the occasional snore fills the air.

From above you two might look like you’re transient, only here in this moment for a short time. And, realistically, you are.

━━━━

Logan was no where to be seen by the time you woke up, and you made quick work to get out of his room. It always feel wrong to be in someone’s space when they aren’t there.

Just like Storm said, the windows in your rooms were fixed the next day. It looks as though nothing even happened.

“Thank fuck,” you mumble to yourself as you step back into your room.

If you ever have to spend another night in Logan’s bed, you might as well wear a shirt that says “yes, we’re fucking!”, even if it isn’t true. You could deny it all you want, but it won’t stop what students would say. Nothing gets past them, even if it’s behind a closed door.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“Are you fucking Logan?”

You almost swallow your tongue. “Sorry?” Your brows shoot up in surprise, eyes round in disbelief.

“Are you guys sleeping together?” Storm casually asks as she flicks through the T.V. channels, glancing over to you from her spot on the couch.

You’re sat comfortably in an arm chair, suddenly no longer caring what channel she decides on. “Why would you think that?” Technically you were sleeping together, but not like that. It may never happen again, no matter how badly you want it to.

“Things travel fast around here,” she deflects with a cheeky smile. “And, you know, Logan is…Logan.” She shrugs.

You don’t even know what to say to that. Is there a right or wrong answer?

“It wasn’t like that,” you grumble. “He was doing me a favour. As a friend.” It hasn’t even been a full day since he let you stay with him while pieces of your window laid on your floor, and people are already convinced you’re fucking.

You haven’t even managed a chaste kiss, despite how much as you want to, never mind his dick being balls deep in you.

“Right.” She emphasizes the word, not convinced. Or just pushing your buttons because she can.

You roll your eyes. “If anything was happening, you’d be the first to know,” you point out.

She looks back over to you. “I know,” she says with another, more sincere, smile. “You two would be cute, though.”

You give her some side-eye, not quite sure if you disagree entirely with that statement. Whatever happens, happens. Logan is not something you can control or influence. He does what—and who—he wants, when he wants.

━━━━

A bolt of lightening strikes you. You gasp, then release a choked cry, eyes flying open as you claw at your chest in terror.

Your throat tightens and you break out in a cold sweat as you sit up. The soft blanket around you feels constricting. Sporadic and short breaths make you heave as your body registers the horrors in your subconscious.

There was never any lighting. That’s just what the pain feels like.

The muscles in your shoulders and neck tense from your panicked state as your heart struggles to keep a normal rhythm. You yank the blanket off, feeling weak from fear and the onset of tremors. Your whole body gives up on itself as you sob through broken exhales. Your legs have gone cold, lungs shrinking inch by inch with every passing minute.

You crawl to the edge of your bed, wanting to just get out and leave—the blanket. The bed. The room. Most of all, you want to escape your own mind.

You sink onto the floor when a foot touches the ground, and you realize walking isn’t in the cards right now. You’re shaking too badly to be able to physically move. All your strength is gone, robbed by your memories.

Balmy tears paint your face in determination, making sure no part of you is left untouched by this spell.

You screw your eyes shut, tears still slipping out with ease anyway. Leaning your back against the bed-frame, you curl into yourself and wrap your arms around your knees on the chilled hardwood.

You try to focus on your breathing to at least slow your heart down to a pace that doesn’t hurt.

Wounded cries rip their way out of you, interrupting the breaths you try to steady. A hand touches your arm and you yelp like an injured dog, flailing at the contact as your arms swing out from around your knees in shock.

“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s me.” Strong hands quickly wrap around each of your wrists to stop your arms from thrashing.

You try to focus your eyes, blurred and stinging from tears, on the person kneeling closely in front of you.

“L-Logan…” you whisper, balling your fists to try and expel the shakes.

He looks like someone who shouldn’t be able to be concerned about another person, yet the look on his face scares you. Brows pinched together in worry, eyes frantic, lips parted from heavy breaths. All because of you.

“It’s just me,” he hushes your cries. His thumbs stroke the undersides of your wrists tenderly, no doubt feeling your racing pulse.

You feel disoriented. “Wh…how…”

“I heard you,” he explains, watching you process everything. He drops your wrists when some recognition passes over your face.

“What do you need?” He follows your gaze as it wanders around the room, trying to keep you from spiralling further.

You look at him for a moment. He’s got his white tank-top on, the black sweats, and an intense need to help you written all over him. Fresh tears burn your cheeks as you come back into reality.

“I want it to fucking stop,” you weep, head falling into your hands in shame.

You don’t want him to see you like this, even though it’s a commonality between you two. It’s too intimate. You’d take him seeing you blackout drunk everyday of the year over this.

Then you do remember that it has stopped. Each time in Logan’s bed. There was silence. Peace. For the whole night. For both of you.

“Tell me what you need,” he says firmly, angling his head down to keep your eyes on him, desperately wanting an answer.

“You.” You suck in an agonizing breath to try and collect yourself.

He doesn’t flinch like you expect him to. If anything, his eyes become more pensive, clearly considering something. Then he shakes his head in wariness.

“C’mon. Let’s get you out of here,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. The only sound echoing in the room is your wobbly breathes, your body jerking with each one as you enter the aftermath and begin to go slack.

An arm slides behind your back, his hand grabbing ahold of your side while he pulls your legs over his other arm, picking you up off the floor.

He cradles you against him just like he did when you were drunk, carrying you out of your room.

He left your door open when he came in, and you hope no students heard or saw anything. He tilts to grab the doorknob, shutting it without a sound.

You wipe and rub at your eyes as Logan takes a few steps down the hall, quickly getting to where he needs to go when you feel him lean for his doorknob.

You’re sure a few rogue, leftover tears fall onto his shirt before he manages to sit on his bed lightly, you still curled tightly in his arms.

His hand pushes on your back for you to sit upright on his lap. “Face me,” he encourages, holding onto your sides as you twist around, bending your legs to slide over his thighs and straddle him loosely.

You look down at him, he looks up at you, feeling the quivers in your body dissipate as you melt further into his lap. A fondness crosses over both of your tired faces. He rests his arms over your thighs, warm hands linking behind your back as you do the same around his neck.

It’s nothing provocative or seductive. All you can feel is the care and concern rolling off of him in suffocating waves. He wants you to feel safe, and if that means overrunning your senses with his presence, then that’s what he’ll do.

“Got anything to say?” He murmurs, the fallen strands of hair around the edges of his forehead bristle with each move of his head. The rest of his hair fails to fully resemble the cat-like ears he had earlier in the day.

What does he want to hear?

You let your head hang a little, your nose almost brushing his. “I have nothing to say,” you assert, fidgeting with the chain of his dog tag at the nape of his neck.

You don’t necessarily feel embarrassed about him seeing you in such a helpless state, but you don’t want to simply unload your shit on him. So, in turn, you have nothing to say.

“Bullshit.” He almost rolls his eyes. There’s no real threat of him forcing you to say anything behind it. He won’t pry, but he doesn’t believe you.

An offended look overcomes your face, and you almost pull away. You don’t want to feel the humiliation of elaborating on just why exactly you said you needed him in this moment out of everything else.

“I just…” You roll your lips together in thought, measuring the words you could say but won’t. “Want to sleep. Here,” you sigh. “I don’t wanna go back.” You deflate in his arms, voice wobbly.

It’s already who-knows what time, and you need to pacify your wired nervous system; Logan simply holding you has already helped with that more than you want to admit.

His mouth quirks up briefly at that. “What happened to not wanting to make that a habit?” His eyes soften as his arms retract from around your sides, letting you slip easily onto his bed from his lap in a moment of calm, or relief.

Habit, if not resisted, soon becomes necessity.

“Special circumstances,” you reason, already pulling the blanket over you while he keeps his place at the edge of the bed, observing you with amusement.

“Seems like you get into those a lot,” he notes, pushing himself off the mattress.

He steps around to the other side—his designated spot—and slips the tank-top off, letting it drop to the floor. You’re not trying to be a freak, but you watch the whole thing.

The flex of his arms and shoulders are out of your mind as fast as they entered as you watch him hook his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats and pull them downright in front of you, not even turning around or to the side to try and conceal himself.

Your eyes widen, then you reel in your thoughts before they get lost at sea. No one who is sane fucking sleeps in sweatpants. Duh.

But didn’t he the last two times? It’s hard for you to remember, but you’d certainly recall if you were face-to-face with the outline of his di—

“It’s rude to stare, y’know.” Logan pulls his lips together, interrupting your thoughts. You try to not eyeball the bulge too hard, but it basically looked at you first.

The snug briefs do little to hide anything. They hide nothing, actually.

You almost scoff, but the playfulness in his tone tells you he couldn’t give a shit. He probably likes it anyway. From what you know, he definitely does.

“Oh, yeah, like you’ve ever cared about modesty,” you throw back, averting your gaze to the ceiling anyway.

It’s not that he runs around the mansion naked, but he definitely isn’t shy about what he looks like or against showing some skin. You’ve seen and heard enough over the past few months.

You hear a stifled chuckle as he joins you under the blanket without a retort. He knows you’re right. He’s just glad you’re a little lively and alert.

“Will you be okay for the rest of the night?” He brings both hands behind his head on the pillow, propping himself up a little.

“I should be fine,” you say confidently. “The challenge will be getting back to sleep.” You laugh in exasperation.

It’s always hard to calm down and get back to a place of tranquility after everything has settled with your mind. You’re pumped full of adrenaline and there’s not much that can curb something that persistent flowing through your body.

You haven’t found anything to help with it. Yet.

“There’s not many people that’ll understand what you go through,” he starts, voice rough with fatigue. “But I do.”

You look to him, sliding an arm under your pillow as you turn on your side. “How do you…help it.” You’re not sure if you phrased that right. It feels crude to reduce something so complex to the likes of a common cold that has an array of over-the-counter solutions.

“You don’t. It just has to run its course.” He looks to you, wanting to see your reaction.

It wasn’t meant to be hurtful or insensitive, but he’s not going to lie to you and say that things can only get better and that the worst is over. Especially for mutants, that’s not always true.

Although you don’t know what Logan lives with every day and sleeps with every night, you do know that his capacity for empathy is still intact. Here you are in his bed after all, seeing and indulging in a side of him that many never will.

You sigh lightly. “We’re quite the pair.”

A comfortable half-smirk slips over his lips. “I think we’re just fucked up insomniacs,” he suggests with a breathy exhale that’s close enough to a laugh.

You wish you could slide a thumb over the pulse in his wrist and see what’s haunting him, just to understand what happened to the Wolverine, but you’ve learned that doing so usually isn’t worth the price you’ll pay after. If what’s in his head is horrific enough to cause him to go through a couple mattresses a month, then it won’t do you any good either.

“I sleep pretty good with you,” you offer, seeing how he raises a brow in doubt almost instantly.

He sleeps well with you, too. It kind of rattled him when he noticed a pattern of uninterrupted nights and you being by his side. Not a single mattress ruined on those nights.

“Try not to knee me in the stomach tonight,” he deflects with ease. He takes his hands out from behind his head, sliding his left arm under the pillow as he turns over onto his side and closes his eyes. Facing you.

You mentally smack yourself. Multiple times. You didn’t think you drifted that much when you slept.

“No promises,” you mutter. You catch a small shake of his head before you let yourself join him in unconsciousness as you mirror each others lonely bodies.

━━━━

Your eyes ache—to open, to move, to touch. Enough crying will do that to you.Your eyelids are heavy, but there’s something else weighing down on you.

A tired groan crawls from your throat as you try to place yourself for a moment. The morning sun is just beginning to shine too brightly for your liking, and you squish your face deeper into the pillow.

You’re still tipsy with sleep, lying flat on your stomach, but there’s something dense and hot resting over your back.

You prop yourself up on your forearms, giving yourself a minute to wake up. You twist your hips around to sit yourself up, feeling the thing on your back slide down to your waist.

The blanket pools around your hips, and you feel a hand reflexively squeeze over the meat of your hip in disapproval of your moving. Something in you clenches at the sensation of something invading the area with ease. A spot reserved for intimacy.

Your head quirks to your right, seeing Logan on his stomach with his right arm thrown over your midsection.

You blink in surprise, staring at his sleeping body. His hair is sticking up every which way, his head half-off the pillow, his side of the blanket not even covering the curve of his ass anymore. It’s endearing to see the Wolverine in such a normal, human state.

But if someone were to walk in, it would look like you two spent the whole night fucking. A lot. That wakes you up a little more.

You peek over at the nightstand behind him and see the time blinking on his watch. It’s already 8 a.m.

You rest a hand over his shoulder to gently guide his arm off of you, but you stop yourself. Instead, you lightly trace your fingers down his shoulders and upper back a couple times, occasionally scratching softly over the ridges of muscle.

A shiver quickly rolls through his upper body, but your touch doesn’t fully wake him. He knows it’s just you.

It’s the least you can do for him as a thanks for recovering your broken body from the floor of your room and bringing you here when he didn’t necessarily have to.

It almost feels like instinct to offer comforting gestures to him. There’s something inside you that just pulls to him. You want to be the one that can give him comfort and help him put himself back together.

You want to be the only one.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

There’s a shadow that’s been following you around the mansion.

As soon as you stepped out of Logan’s room that morning a few days ago, it started.

This shadow likes to be nosy about what you’re doing. This shadow likes to be in your space. This shadow wants to be in your space. And he is.

No one has seen Logan out around the mansion this much, including you, and that’s how you noticed he’s basically been attached to your hip ever since he decided your back was a comfortable armrest.

He’s always just there, like a stray cat begging for food or affection. There to entertain you, banter with you, indulge you, in any way he can, including now as you trail back inside the mansion well behind Storm from an evening walkabout in the garden.

“No smoking in the courtyard,” you sing as you pass him carelessly, not even offering a glance to him in interest.

You like playing this game. Whatever it is. Constantly poking and prodding at each other to see what you can do to get the other to break in some way, no matter how slight.

Your heart flutters and flips every time; maybe from the thrill of it all, maybe from the arousal you get from the tension. You hope he feels everything, too.

He turns his head to watch you cross into the entryway. “Blow me,” he throws back playfully through a thick puff of smoke, leaning against the brick wall with a cigar pinched between two fingers.

You suppress a chuckle, keeping your unwavering pace. “Yeah, you wish!” You yell over your shoulder. You know he hears you. He wouldn’t let himself miss it.

Logan smirks and shakes his head in amusement, always impressed with your quick rebuttals that occasionally tent his jeans. He takes one last drag out of spite before following your footsteps inside.

You have become, by definition, friends…in a way. Even if you sorely cross the line into other territory more often than not. Sexual innuendos and friendly flirting can only go on for so long before the underlying intentions and meaning reflects real desires.

It’s evolved into more than just borrowing his bed a couple times or helping each other out. It’s surpassed the fear of whatever habit you were afraid of forming from doing so. It’s become a dependency to get that adrenaline high from simply riling each other up.

You have an assumption that if you were to end up in Logan’s bed again, somehow, there will be a point of no return that you’ll be faced with. There aren’t many more excuses that can be used for explaining to yourselves why you’re together in bed before you have to recognize the truth.

That platonic line is being stretched too thin, and you’re not sure how much farther it can go.

━━━━ ● ━━━━

“How’ve you been sleeping?”

“Fine. You?”

“Could be better.” Logan hides his smirk, but you can hear it in his voice.

You narrow your eyes skeptically as he fishes around in the fruit bowl sitting in the middle of the kitchen island.

“How so?” You ask. Your legs swing leisurely as you sit upon the chilled countertop on his left, idly waiting for Storm to show up and go with you to training.

A smug, tight-lipped grin flashes across his face, a green apple rolling around in his palms before he puts it back. “You could be there,” he provokes, his eyes bright.

It’s your turn to raise a brow at him, but you can’t stop your smile. “Oh?”

He turns to you, tenderly grabbing the tops of your thighs and parting them slightly to stand between your legs.

This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and he knows it rouses you in all the right ways. But, neither of you will do anything about it. Not even a brief kiss.

“Come on,” he goads, planting his hands down next to your hips, bringing himself in closer as he bears his weight on his arms. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” He sways his head side to side to emphasize his point.

Fuck. That’s good.

That may be exactly what you did for him, but it’s now a figure of speech for something else entirely. It’s almost impossible to argue against either way, as if you want to. This is what you’ve been patiently waiting for.

You put your hands over his as you lean back a little to put some distance between you. “How sweet,” you hum.

His eyes flick from yours to your lips one too many times before you continue. “You start to miss me?” You tease as you lean forward again, echoing what he said to you the night your window got smashed in.

“Smart-ass,” he mutters as you laugh quietly. The tips of your noses barely graze each other as he steps in closer again. You’re almost at the same height like this.

“Save me the left side,” you advise, bringing your hands to his shoulders as you fondle his white t-shirt between your fingers. You’re so close, and he’s already so warm against you just like this.

“Always do.”

━━━━

You want to rip your heart out of your chest from how hard it’s pounding against your ribs. It’s almost throwing you forward with each heavy beat.

Three resounding knocks fill the hallway as you shuffle on your feet, waiting for Logan to open the door.

It feels like you’re doing something bad. Something parents would warn their kids against. Something greatly envied.

Everything inside you feels on fire. Your thoughts, desires, anxiety, all jumbling together into one distorted state of mind and body.

“Ah, welcome back.” His sarcastic tone makes your face go hot. A satisfied smirk crosses his lips as he runs a hand through his shaggy, unstyled hair.

You shake your head, pursing your lips. “Knock it off.” You gently shove at his bare chest. Misbehaviour already. But are you really surprised?

Logan grabs your wrist, delicately guiding you into his room. “You enjoy it,” he says lowly, quickly shutting the door as soon as you’re in.

“Maybe,” you hum in response, pulling away from his grasp and seeking out your side of the bed. Logan follows closely behind, giving your ass a light smack in encouragement before he cuts away to his side while you jolt in shock, a stunned look on your face as you whip your head around to him across the bed.

“Oh, really?” You scoff. He’s biting back a smile, not moving until he knows what you’ll do next. He’s never gone that far before.

“I’m sorry, that was rude—how can I make it up to you?” He almost chokes on a laugh, pulling his dog tag back and forth along the chain while he considers you.

This Logan is very different from the one you were met with the first night he let you in his space. This one is attentive and exuberant, yet he hasn’t given you much up until this point right now. You’ve gotten way too comfortable with him without even doing anything to you.

In this moment, he isn’t the brooding, animalistic Wolverine many see him as. He’s just Logan—for you.

You watch him carefully, easing yourself onto the bed. “Get in the fucking bed,” you slap his side of the mattress with a thump of your palm. “And do what you promised earlier,” you stare pointedly at him.

He owes you that “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” favour he decided to pull out to get you here.

“Mm, alright, alright,” he surrenders, a look of amusement still on his face as he kneels onto the bed. “I thought of a pretty good idea for it,” he says softly, crawling to sit next to you on top of the blanket as the bed-frame creaks with the added weight.

Your shoulders almost brush against each other. You shift, turning your body fully toward him. “Oh? Wh—woah!”

You squeal when his strong hands latch onto your sides, lifting you just enough to pull you over his legs to plant you on his lap. He leans back against the headboard, pulling on your thighs so you straddle him tightly.

He looks devilish when you catch his gaze again, and you know what’s coming. What’s been coming. Your hands find their places on his shoulders, warm and taut, as his hands hold your hips.

The bond between you will culminate tonight. It will be wrapped in a blanket and trapped between two alike souls that lie heart-to-heart in the dead of night. It will be perpetual.

The heat of him between your legs makes you restless. It’s just you, him, and the darkness in the quiet room you’ve become too familiar with.

“Logan…” you trail off bashfully when you feel something firm through his sweats poke against your cunt. It clearly doesn’t take much to excite him.

“Hm?” He takes you in for a split second, hands running from your hips up to your chest leisurely with a sharp inhale, not yet completely bothered by the fact that you have a shirt on.

You suck in a shaky breath when your hips accidentally shift over his bulge from his hands pushing and pulling over you.

“What’s the idea?” Your voice wavers.

You know what it is. He knows that. You just want to hear him say it and fill the silence.

“Something I’ve wanted for a while,” he murmurs, eyes hyper-focused on you.

Your fingers dance their way to the sides of his neck, brushing along the supple skin while you feel muscles and tendons flex with every slight movement. You subtly press the pad of your index finger against the pulse point right under his jaw, just to ground yourself and truly feel that Logan is there in front of you.

His pulse is steady but hard, much like yours, and the prickle of energy festering against the finger almost makes it go numb from not accepting it into your body.

“Show me, then.” You smile sweetly, leaning in closer while you tilt his head up with the hand under his jaw, your finger slipping from his pulse and caressing over the dense, coarse hair along his cheek.

Your noses bump while your lips part in anticipation. His eyes flutter as he falls into you and frantically claims your mouth in an unbreakable kiss.

The first kiss. Nothing could tear him from you in this moment.

Your hands cradle his cheeks, keeping him from pulling off too far. His hands scratch and paw at your back, trying to find a way to somehow get you closer against him.

It’s all a little messy, your lips mostly just mashing together without any rhyme or reason, but neither of you care. You only care about how electrifying it feels to finally have Logan and feel how perfectly connected you are together after all these nights. You go together like a key and its lock.

“Logan,” you pant when his mouth releases yours for a fraction of a breath. The seconds between kisses dwindle the more you take from each other.

Your thighs tense as he pulls half an inch away just to reconnect more crazed as his lips lock over your bottom one aimlessly. Something deep inside you trembles and aches.

He grunts, accidentally sucking the tip of your tongue briefly before slotting his lips back over yours in an apology. “Hold on,” he mumbles in a rush against your parted lips. He knows what you’re asking—or trying to ask. He snakes an arm up along your spine and wraps the other around your waist.

Then the world is tilting.

He drops you on your back on the bed from his lap, hovering over you as he distracts you with harsh but pleasing kisses and wet bites along your neck, settling his hips heavily between your thighs. You squirm and feel how bolts of arousal are making your cunt pulse involuntarily.

Logan groans. “Fuck—I can smell it. I smell you.” He slowly grinds his hips into yours almost reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut, and you tip your chin up to press a chaste kiss to his slick lips.

“Taste…if you want to,” you propose, lightly scratching up and down his shoulders and arms, only enough to leave faint red lines for a couple seconds.

Logan’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head before he gives it a small shake, a conflicted look overtaking his face. “Of course I fucking want to, but—fuck—next time. I promise.” He swallows whatever you were going to say with a deep kiss that has you nearly shaking when he sucks on your bottom lip.

“Let’s just take things easy,” he says roughly, bearing his weight on his left arm while he tries to get your sleep shorts and underwear off.

A promise of a next time makes your brain go fuzzy like static.

“I’ll hold you to it, then,” you resolve, lifting your hips as much as you can for him to lean back and pull away to wrestle your clothes the rest of the way down your legs, discarding them just as quickly.

“I hope you will,” he breathes through a small laugh as he shuffles on his knees. He doesn’t want to completely overwhelm you and scare you off, he just wants to enjoy you in a simple way that won’t entirely ruin you for tomorrow.

He doesn’t know what you can or cannot handle, but he’s going to find out.

The fresh air in the room brushes cooly against your wet cunt. It’s a nice contrast to how fiery your whole body feels, but Logan feels even warmer than you somehow. Maybe wolverine’s just run hot.

His sweats have ridden down his hips from his desperate grinding against you, and the dangerous cut of his v-line grows more and more narrow as the waistband teases the reveal of what’s underneath.

You watch him—palming his dick once as your knees sway side-to-side in waiting. His thumbs hook under the stretchy fabric, working what remains of his clothes down his sturdy thighs.

“It’s rude to stare.” He pops a brow, a smug, arrogant grin quirking his lips.

You push yourself to sit up, considerably shorter than him in this position as he stands on his knees, and walk two fingers up his toned stomach to his chest, avoiding the hard cock between you.

He looks at you with curiosity until your hand grabs his dog tag in a fist, pulling it towards you. “Then stop showing me your dick,” you say as he leans in to your pulling a little to not have the chain break away.

You knew the night Logan dropped his pants in front of you and let you eye-up his bulge would come back to haunt you. But it’s alluring. Big. Curves a little to the left, barely noticeable. A respectable amount of hair decorates the space between his bellybutton and the base of his cock.

He gives in to the tension on the chain, falling back to the mattress with you and trapping you between his arms as his cock rests heavy on your clit.

“How about I find somewhere to put it?” His smile pushes a whole new wave of arousal from you.

“It would be a damn shame if you didn’t,” you say against his mouth, giving your hips a roll just to tease him before hugging his waist tightly with your knees.

“Good.” He gives you a strong kiss with a small grunt, running his hands over your sides under your shirt. The movement pushes it up, up, up, until you have no choice but to stretch your arms out above you and let him slide it off between more thoughtless kisses, leaving you entirely bare.

He lets you breathe for a moment, dipping his head to bite and suck marks along your collarbones messily. You squeeze around his hips harder, trying to get him to give you something other than his scratchy cheeks rubbing against your skin and the chilled steel of the dog tag dragging over your chest.

The tip of his cock falls and catches over your clit when he moves lower, licking and sucking over your chest like a starved animal finding food for the first time in a week. You gasp from the mixed sensations.

“C’mon, kitty cat, you can do all this while inside m-me,” you say breathily, fingers digging into his shoulders to stop yourself from trembling too much.

Logan bites over a nipple before pulling himself back up to look at you. “Is that a promise?” He says lowly, that stupid smirk gracing his face again.

“Try it and find out,” you demand, enjoying the sting of the deeper bites blooming on your torso.

He purses his lips, shifting his weight back onto his knees to grab ahold of his cock to angle and guide it in.

“Hm, guess no lube is needed,” he muses when he gets a look at your cunt, sparing you a glance through his lashes.

You roll your eyes shut when your whole body lights up red-hot. “Jesus fucking Christ, Logan,” you slap a hand over your eyes as you grimace. You don’t want to be that aware of your naked self right now.

He suppresses whatever expression was about to cross his face when his cock notches itself between your soaked folds, teasing your hole with the blunt tip. His brows pinch together and you forget the embarrassment from his crude remark.

But he leaves his cock like that, on the precipice of sliding the rest of the way in with a snap of his hips. Instead, he carefully uncurls his upper body to crawl his way back up to you while holding his hips deathly still.

“Alright, stay with me,” he whispers against your neck when you moan, pressing a tender kiss to your rabid pulse in reassurance.

“O-okay,” you sigh, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the roots while the other squeezes around his arm as best as it can. You’re not even really sure what he’s saying.

He kisses up your cheek and over to your lips again. You try to keep up with his quick mouth, licking and sucking whatever part you can get ahold of, but you’ve become lost in the feeling of him all over you.

He’s in your mouth, on your chest, against your stomach, nudging your cunt. Everywhere.

He slips his tongue over yours, securing your lips together at the same time he pushes his cock in halfway. Now you understand what he was saying.

The lightheadedness from being filled, even just a bit, almost makes you lose yourself. The stretch makes your stomach drop, your legs shake, and your mouth fall open with a whine.

“A-ah—fuck. Fuck, Logan,” you whimper, fisting his hair with both hands to stop yourself from falling apart.

He groans, either at the grip you have on his hair or how good your cunt feels already, and runs a hand up your left thigh in comfort as you squeeze around his hips tighter to draw him in.

“Just a bit more,” he soothes, trying to resist the urge to slide into you in one fell swoop. It would be so easy to just let his hips fall into yours and fill your cunt.

Another heated kiss, another few inches. He works his cock into you the rest of the way with ease. You guess the lube thing wasn’t really a joke. His hungry, needy kisses may have also helped with that.

You choke on your gasps, not wanting to get too loud, and Logan does the same. He tries to muffle both of your moans with his mouth, attempting to form complete kisses, but it just turns into you panting against each other as he finally bottoms out, hitting his end.

Your legs relax around his waist as he deftly rocks his hips in small thrusts to get you familiar with his size, his small grunts filling the air each time you swallow him whole.

You let out a deep breath, dropping your hands back to his tense shoulders. He lines your jaw with soft kisses, fisting the blanket in his hands beside your head.

“Fuck. Already feels too good,” he moans, pressing into you harder and unintentionally rubbing himself over your tender clit.

You smile, squirming while he works down your neck again. “Best of luck,” you huff, amused at the fact that he might not last as long as he wants to.

He brings his face back to yours, a completely blissful expression controlling his features, but there’s still some mischief in his hazel eyes. “Oh? Yeah?”

You hold each other’s gaze, both equally dazed and overwhelmed, and he draws his hips back and pushes into your wet cunt with a complete, strong thrust. The sound of his pelvis hitting against the backs of your thighs makes him laugh in pleasure and satisfaction when you instantly roll your eyes and head back.

Your cunt quivers, gripping him tight, and then it’s Logan’s turn to lose composure. He drops his head to your chest, managing a few deep breaths as he slowly pulls out halfway just to push right back into you, over and over.

It’s a pace that isn’t quite pure, mindless fucking, but it’s also not somewhere near earnest love-making. It’s something that feels specifically curated for you. Something that feels measured and sincere.

The strength of his thighs hitting against yours pushes you up the mattress a few inches, and you don’t know whether to gasp or moan. He reaches somewhere deep inside you, and you know he can feel that, too.

A helpless groan slips through Logan’s lips. “Where have you fucking been, huh?” He muses through shaky breaths, the determined plunge of his cock hitting something that makes your muscles tense throughout your body.

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, keeping him close. “Two doors down,” you giggle, understanding that’s not quite what he was asking.

“Fucking smart-ass,” he grumbles, silencing any further rebuttals with a wet kiss. You don’t think you could manage much more of a conversation even if you wanted to.

The silence is quickly filled with obscene sounds that only seem to leave you wetter and Logan throbbing. You can hear your bodies connecting through your gasping for air and his choked moans, and you can feel the mess you’re making all over him. It’s smeared along the inside of your thighs from how deep he’s been hitting. The squelching only seems to make him fuck into you harder.

Something inside you starts to grow tight and wind up in your core, making you repeatedly clench around him while his cock strokes all the right spots inside you as he makes sure he’s fucking himself in to the base. He doesn’t deprive you of anything.

He drops his head to your neck, wedging his face in to latch onto the spot right where your neck starts to slope into your shoulder. The dense muscle there gives him something to basically chew on, sinking his teeth in as deep as he can without drawing blood.

“H-hah, Logan,” you whine, tilting your head into the side of his and squirming from the pleasant sting.

You feel his arm move beside you, then you hear the sound of tearing fabric as he gives a particularly brutal snap of his hips, followed by a deep groan against your skin.

You can barely form any thoughts, but you can guess what just happened. If he pulled his hand back, three long, slim holes would probably be where his knuckles are right now.

“Fu-uck, Logan, you just got t-this mattress,” you laugh a little, your words choppy from how hard he’s driving into you now.

He draws back from your neck, seeing your half-lidded eyes trying to focus on him. “Can’t always control it,” he reasons, giving you two short, fleeting kisses as you hear his claws retract from the innocent mattress.

You see the double-edged sword. You can guess that that’s the same explanation he would probably use for the nightmares. It can go either way, and now you’ve seen both sides.

“It’s okay,” you say in a hushed tone. You cradle his face, and he rests his forehead against yours. “Keep going…keep going,” you coax, face scrunching from your nearing orgasm.

You can feel it in your toes, your stomach, your shoulders—you’re tightening up everywhere, and he can undoubtedly feel it in your cunt as you pulse around him. It grips him just right for a couple seconds before relaxing completely and leaving him to chase for more.

“Keep squeezing me like that and you’ll get whatever you want,” he offers, fighting to maintain his steady pace for both your sakes.

You almost whine, knowing whatever your body does is beyond your control at this point.

“Just—inside.” You can’t even string together a full sentence anymore, but the urgency and stress on the last word makes Logan’s ears perk up.

He presses a soft kiss to your clammy forehead in acknowledgment, the muscles in his arms straining and flexing as he grabs ahold of his own orgasm after a particularly inviting flutter of your walls.

You’re both walking the line, teetering on the edge of utter euphoria, and you know nothing will be the same after. You don’t want it to be. You hope it isn’t.

He reaches an arm back, sliding his hand up your thigh again and slotting it behind the bend in your knee. He pushes forward—only slightly—bringing your leg closer to your stomach to stretch you open for him.

His cock brushes over something new. Something that makes you bite your tongue. The angle lets him fit perfectly against you, not hindered by the flesh of your thigh stopping his hips.

You want to cry from how good it all feels. You want to be suspended in this feeling forever. You want Logan to—

“Focus, baby. Focus on me,” he coos, bringing you back to reality. He holds the side of your head with his other hand affectionately. “Come on…come on, I know you’re almost there,” he encourages with a quick kiss that goes straight to your stomach.

The burn in your thigh from the stretch can’t overpower the sparks of your orgasm, and Logan just fanned the flames with a few little words.

You come with a broken sob, convulsing around his cock while he fucks you through it, submitting to his own orgasm only seconds after with deep, shaky breaths as he empties himself inside your cunt.

He doesn’t pull out or pull away. He relaxes on top of you, sweaty and sticky with cum, and he places the barest whisper of a kiss on your chin, your parted lips, your nose, and then your forehead.

Your ears ring from your orgasm, eyes still slightly out of focus. Your body trembles from your muscles finally releasing the tension they’ve been caught up in.

You desperately suck in air, trying to calm your pounding heart, and you just lie there and let Logan walk your body through a cool-down. Soft kisses. Soft touches. Soft looks. Between sweat, cum, and whatever else.

He rocks a little on his knees, weak from his release, and carefully pulls out of you with a huff as he caresses your stomach and thighs appreciatively to wind you down. You get a good look at him. Not a scratch. His hair tells a story, though—one where he’s completely possessed by bliss.

You probably look like you survived an animal attack.

“Are we even?” Logan says through a kiss against your stomach.

A mindless laugh crawls from your throat, caught up in the feeling of his hands rubbing circles over your hips. “I think I still owe you,” you argue, resting your hands over his as they travel smoothly up your side.

You’ll find a way to make everything up to him. Including the sex. The scale is now tipping to his side too much. All the nights spent in his bed, what he’s done for you, what you’ve done for each other, may just be immeasurable, but that won’t stop you from finding a way to get him back for it all.

“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, snaking back up your body and pressing himself against you. Face-to-face. Chest-to-chest.

You mindfully run your hands over the sides of his head, trying to tame his hair and style it back to how it was earlier in the night. It doesn’t work. He enjoys it anyway.

“Do I have the pleasure of staying here tonight?” You ask rhetorically, enjoying the warmth of him on top of you against the brisk air creeping in from the cracked window.

Logan blinks. “You can stay every night.”

A loving smile springs over your face. This may be the beginning of the end to your troubles and worries.

You—maybe foolishly—trust him. You trust that he won’t accidentally bury his claws in your side during the night, but you’ve had impressive luck with that up until this point. The only thing you can do now is continue to push that luck.

Healing isn’t linear, and you can’t expect someone to fix you, but everyone finds their thing at some point.

You slither your hand down to his neck, index finger grazing over his pulse again. You feel the energy biting against you.

Your lips graze over his, tempting him to give you a slow, deep kiss. “Can I have the left side?” Rhetorical, again.

Logan chuckles against your mouth. “Always.”

#did my best to appease readers from the criticism i’ve seen about logan fics so. lol #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #xmen x reader #xmen x you #xmen smut #hugh jackman x reader #hugh jackman x you #marvel smut #the wolverine x reader #x men x reader #logan howlett fluff #wolverine fanfiction

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imaginedisish · 4 months ago

Text

My Girl (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey guys!! So sorry this took so long. Here is the secret relationship/breeding kink fic. I honestly really like this one...and I hope you guys do too. Was listening to "Juna" by Clairo while writing it, but went with "My Girl" for the title. ENJOY!

Summary: You and Logan have been in a secret relationship for months, but everything comes to a head when a new mutant visits the Institute, and won't leave you alone...Logan shows him, and you, who your man is.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!! SMUT!!! Thigh riding, Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), breeding kink, praise kink, possessive!Logan, jealous!Logan, unspecified/implied!Age Gap, established relationship, creepy!OC who hits on reader and doesn't lay off, minor violence, afab!/fem!reader, fluff/feelings, cursing, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it?

Word Count: 5,313 this is why it took so long also, smut right under the cut...

You remember the first time he fucked you, vividly.

It was late at night, after a mission. You almost died in his arms. And that was what broke that thing inside him, the burden of time that he carries, that deep-seated pain that made it justifiable to stay away from you. He had held back for so long—had done his all to resist falling for you. He was screwed from the beginning, and he knew that. But he had become so terrified at the thought of losing you that he hadn’t realized it could happen all the same if he stayed away—if he forced himself to remain a friend.

So, when he fucked you that first time, that first night, he fucked you like it’d be the last—the only time.

“Goddammit, so fucking perfect,” he mumbled, his lips bruising yours, shoving himself deep inside—as deep as you could take him. “Needed you this whole time. Can’t live without you.”

“Logan,” you whined, his hips snapping against yours. “D-don’t stop, please.” “Never gonna stop, pretty girl,” he promised. “Can’t go back. Can’t be anywhere but here.”

For months now, you’ve been together—but nobody knows. There’s no doubt about commitment—nothing casual about the relationship in the slightest. You start and end every day in Logan’s bed. You’ve talked about running off together, getting married, and settling down. For the first time in his long life, Logan sees a future where he’s happy—genuinely happy.

The sun peaks through the curtains. You curl yourself into Logan’s chest. His arms are wrapped around your back, holding you tight against him, even in his sleep. You listen to his breathing as the fall breeze creeps through the open window. Everything is calm and quiet in the morning, when everyone is still tucked away in their bedrooms, sound asleep.

Logan groans, tugging you closer to him, nuzzling his face into your neck. “Go back to sleep.” His voice is heavy, laden with exhaustion. “Too early.” He kisses the spot just under your ear, and you moan involuntarily, feeling extra sensitive in the haze of the morning. He smiles softly against your neck, and kisses you again, his teeth grazing your skin. You moan louder this time, intertwining your legs with Logan’s. “Love those pretty little noises you make.”

“Feels good,” you murmur, his thigh slotting between your legs, pressing against your core. You can’t help but grind down on his thigh, rocking your hips back and forth. “Need you, Lo,” you beg.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” Logan husks, his palms warm against your bare skin as he slips underneath your shirt—which is really his.

He’s slow in the morning, pressing soft kisses on your bare shoulders, letting his touch linger longer than normal. He likes the peace of it all—waking up to each other, smelling you next to him, feeling the other side of his bed warm and full of you. When he fucks you, early like this, he takes his time.

His fingertips trace the curves of your stomach, falling into your dips, gripping your flesh. Logan breathes you in, his lips softly melting into yours. “Still too early?” You mumble between soft, lazy kisses.

“Never too early to want you,” Logan husks, dragging his thigh against your core again. “Always need you.” You can feel his erection through his boxers. “Gonna take care of my girl. Gonna make you—”

There’s a knock at the door. “Logan?” It’s Scott’s voice on the other side. He knocks again. “Logan, you in there?”

Logan tries to ignore him, his fingertips dragging down your sides, bumping into the hem of your panties as he trails wet, open-mouthed kisses down the hollow of your throat. You let out a breathy moan as Logan bites down on your pulse point. He smiles under your jaw at the soft sound, content that you can’t hold back.

“Logan,” you whisper, running your hands up his arms, to his shoulders, your fingertips finding the nape of his neck. “He’s not gonna stop.”

Sure enough, Scott knocks again. “Logan, I know you’re in there,” he calls, banging on the door now. “Wake up. We have some tech guy on his way.”

Logan groans into your neck. “Why do you need me, Summers?” Logan licks your collarbone teasingly, hiking your t-shirt farther up your body.

“He’s…a mutant,” Scott explains. “He can speak with machines, computers, code—you name it, he can do it. He’s gonna fix some stuff around the mansion. Charles asked me to make sure you’re awake just in case…” Scott trails off.

Logan finishes Scott’s sentence. “In case everything goes to shit?”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Scott huffs, likely shaking his head on the other side of the door. “But yes. In case things don’t go as planned. I’m also looking for—"

But Logan cuts Scott off, saying your name for him.

“Yeah, I can’t find her. Do you know where she might—”

“On a run,” Logan chimes in, and you suppress your laughter by pressing your face into his chest. “She’ll be back soon.” Logan’s arms wrap around your back, holding you against him.

“Alright,” Scott says, shuffling, slowly stepping away from the door. “If you see her, let her know what’s going on, okay?”

“Trust me bub,” Logan husks, his fingers digging into your flesh, tickling you. “I’ll make sure she knows.”

Scott mumbles something unintelligible as he walks down the hallway, his footsteps echoing as he disappears down the stairs.

Logan’s lips are attached to your neck again, sucking playfully. “Where were we?” He teases, his nails grazing down your back. His palms settle on your ass, squeezing your flesh tightly in his hands.

You moan, your chest flush with his. “Logan,” you whine. “We need to get up,” you insist, your hands pushing against Logan’s broad shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscular biceps. “Can’t stay in bed anymore.”

Logan grunts, his thigh still nudged between your legs, rocking into your core. You want him, and it’s tempting to let him take you right here, right now. But you can’t. And he knows it. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips and pulls you tightly into his chest. “Later,” he promises, his lips finding the shell of your ear. You smile at the thought. There was always a later with Logan.

You snuck out of Logan’s room, unnoticed, as always. It was still early—too early for the ruckus of a morning at the mansion to begin. You got ready for the day and slipped downstairs. You’re still shocked at just how oblivious the rest of the team is. Truly, no one knows about you and Logan.

You’re in the kitchen now, nursing a cup of coffee, waiting for the day to start. Familiar, heavy footsteps approach, and you smile before you can even see his face.

“Hi pretty girl,” Logan coos, standing behind you and wrapping his arms around your front. You lean into him, feeling the warmth of his chest and the strength of his heartbeat. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and walks over to the coffee pot.

Scott enters the kitchen as Logan takes his first sip of coffee—one second earlier and he would have seen Logan holding you. “The guy is here,” Scott announces from the doorway. He looks at you and smiles. “Oh! Hey! How was your run?” He asks cheerfully.

You almost spit out your coffee, remembering what you were actually doing this morning. “Great!” You say, doing your all to hold back your laughter. “Surprisingly relaxing.” Logan snorts and plays it off like he’s sniffling.

Scott smiles, none the wiser, and nods, cocking his head towards the hallway just outside the kitchen. “Come meet the tech guy!” He backs out of the doorway and into the hallway. Logan settles his coffee cup—which reads #1 Professor—next to yours on the counter and gives your waist a quick squeeze as you hop out of the chair. You walk shoulder to shoulder into the foyer. All the signs of your relationship are there—out in the open—and yet, still, no one seems to catch them.

You step into the foyer, and there’s Scott and the Professor by the front door, chatting with a younger man—who’s about your age. The man’s eyes find yours, and he smiles softly. “Hi there!” He calls, waving. “I’m Mark!” He strides away from Scott and the Professor and towards you. “But you can call me Techno.” He smirks and winks, extending his hand out, waiting for you to take it.

Logan grabs his hand instead, gripping it tightly, catching Mark off guard. “Wolverine,” Logan growls. “And you can’t call me Logan,” he adds, gritting his teeth. “So, you turn on computers, bub?”

Mark grimaces, wrenching his hand from Logan’s grasp. “A little more than that,” he asserts, closing his eyes and bawling his fists. You look up as the lights flicker, and televisions turn on and off. Your cell phone rings in your pocket, and you pull it out. The screen reads: Incoming Call from Mark.

Your lips part. “How did you…” You trail off.

Mark shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “My powers essentially let me communicate with electricity and tech,” he explains. You can practically hear Logan seething beside you.

“A technopath,” Charles offers as he rolls over to join the three of you with Scott in tow.

“Exactly,” Mark says, nodding to Charles. “Makes it easy to put my number into pretty girls’ phones.” Mark winks at you, and you press your lips into a straight line in response.

You shake your head. “I’m not inter—”

You’re cut off by the sound of Logan’s claws unsheathing. “These,” Logan pauses, lifting his claws to Mark. “Make it real easy to hurt creeps who put their numbers into girls’ phones without asking first, bub.”

Mark rolls his eyes, and the corners of your lips twitch up. You try to force down your smile, try to slow the rhythm of your heart. You secretly liked when Logan got possessive over you. He was inherently protective, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on just a little.

“Let’s stay on course,” Charles reprimands, guiding Mark to the hallway to the left with a wave of his hand. “Let me show you some of the machines I’d like you to work on.”

“It would be my pleasure, Professor Xavier,” Mark says harshly, his eyes locked on Logan as he backs away to follow Charles and Scott.

Logan lowers all but his center claw, giving Mark the middle finger as he turns around. “Don’t mind Logan,” Scott says as they disappear into a room, the door shutting behind them.

“Logan,” you whisper, now that everyone is gone. “Don’t worry,” you assure, bringing a hand to his shoulder.

He turns to look at you. “He’s a fucking creep.”

“It’s going to be fine.”

It is not going well, or fine.

Mark is something of a nuisance. He’s only been here for an hour, but he has already created multiple excuses to talk to you, to pull you away from whatever task is at hand.

You’re in the middle of teaching an English class, discussing Mrs. Dalloway with a group of older students. “So, what are we to make of Clarissa and Sally’s relationship?” You ask the students, to no avail.

This was your hardest class of the day—especially given the fact that you’re not even a decade older than most of the students. You had joined the X-Men in your early 20s, your powers having shown themselves a bit later than in most mutants, and only a few years have passed since then. Convincing the students who have been here their whole lives that you deserve to teach has been nothing short of a challenge.

So, when Mark butts his head in on your class, annoyance burns through your body. You take a deep breath and swallow down your frustration.

“Hey!” He chimes, his head poking through the open classroom door. “Mind if I take a look at your computer really quick?”

The class perks up, more focused on you than they were just seconds ago. You fake a smile, nodding and pushing yourself off the front of your desk so that he has space to access the computer.

He slips behind the desk and smiles widely. “You didn’t have to move,” he remarks. “Would’ve been nice to have you close.”

You want to gag. You turn away from the students, whispering so they can’t hear. “Listen,” you chide, narrowing your eyes. “I am not interested, so could you please—”

“What are you doing in here, asshole?” Logan’s voice echoes against the walls of the classroom. For the first time all year, the class is paying incredibly close attention. “The Professor told you to check the computers in the lab down the hall.” Logan fully enters the room, striding over to Mark, his hands bawled into fists at his sides. “Beat it, bub.”

“Whatever,” Mark mutters, his head down as he exits the classroom. The bell rings, and the class stands, grabbing their things and filing out the door.

You groan. “Please read the next twenty pages for tomorrow!” You shout over the hubbub and shuffling of students. “I know it’s a challenging novel, but I think you guys can…” The students are gone before you can finish your sentence. “Handle it.”

Logan smiles sympathetically, closing the distance between you and him. His presence is comforting, warm, everything you’ve ever needed. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest. “Sorry,” he apologizes, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Didn’t mean to make your class harder than it is already.”

You take a deep breath, your annoyance fading away. “You helped,” you whisper. “Mark is the one who ruined things,” you insist. “He won’t leave me alone.”

Logan chuckles. “You don’t like him?” He teases. “Don’t like a guy your own age flirting with you?” He’s egging you on, trying to joke, but you can tell part of him is a bit serious.

You shake your head. “Only like you.” You press your lips to the hollow of his throat and Logan grunts.

He reluctantly pulls away, the palms of his hands dragging down your arms, his fingers intertwining with yours. “Gotta get to my class,” he husks, his fingers slipping, tugging longingly as he steps to the door. “Meet me after?” He asks, but he already knows the answer. You’ll be outside his classroom door before the bell rings, waiting for him.

You nod, and he smiles, his hands gripping the doorframe like some invisible magnet is pulling him away, and he’d give anything to spend another second with you. He slips down the hallway, and into his classroom.

You spend the next thirty minutes or so grading papers, waiting for the period to end so that you can walk across the hall to Logan’s class. Another few minutes pass, and you start to collect your things, readying yourself to meet Logan. Your heart thumps in your chest at the thought, even after all the months you’ve spent together.

You grab your bag and head to the door, closing it behind you and locking up. You cross the hall and stand outside Logan’s door. He’s teaching a younger group of kids—ten to eleven-year-olds. You would trade places with him in a heartbeat if you could. The younger students loved you. There was no question of respect, no doubt of your power. But Logan was given the class as a challenge—Charles wanted to test his patience.

And, honestly, seeing him with the children did something to you. You loved watching the way he doted on them, carefully explaining material in a way they’d understand. He was an excellent teacher, and one day, you’re sure, he’d make an even better father. You find yourself falling into fantasy: Logan, late at night, a baby—your baby—on his chest. You can see it now—him changing a diaper, teaching the child to walk. Your heart squeezes in your chest, your eyes falling closed as you daydream about the future—your future together.

You’re so distracted that you don’t hear Mark walk up to you—don’t feel his hand grab your shoulder.

You yelp and jump. “Oh my god,” you mumble, turning around and coming face to face with him.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, his hand lingering for far too long on your shoulder. He finally peels away, his arms falling to his sides. He leans against the wall, trying to appear casual and cool. “What are you doing tonight?”

The bell rings before you can think of a polite way to shoo Mark away, and the students exit Logan’s classroom, happily shouting greetings in your direction. You stood outside Logan’s door every day, and the students were always excited to see you.

A few of them run up to hug you, complaining about Logan’s gruffness. When they hear Logan’s footsteps approaching the door, they bolt down the hallway, their laughter booming against the walls.

Logan steps out into the hall, and he groans audibly when he sees Mark next to you. But Mark ignores Logan, his eyes trained on yours. “Got plans?” He asks again.

You roll your eyes. “Dude, I’m not interested!” You groan, too irritated to pretend to be nice. Mark smirks and parts his lips, ready to persist like the creep he is.

Logan steps in front of you, his claws already out. “Listen, bub,” he growls, his claws just inches from Mark’s chest. “If you don’t fuck off and stop harassing my girl, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Mark scoffs. “My girl? What are you, her father? You can’t possibly be dating her.”

You can see the anger in Logan’s eyes, the honest rage. “Lo,” you soothe. “Don’t do it.” But you know it’s too late. His decision is already made.

Logan shoves Mark against the wall, his claws pressed against his throat. “I’m her fucking boyfriend, bub,” he grunts as Mark squirms helplessly under his hold.

“Oh, her boyfriend?” He teases, despite the fear in his eyes. “Aren’t you too old to be a boyfriend?”

Logan shoves him harder into the wall, and Mark yelps pathetically, like a small dog. “More serious than that,” Logan asserts. “Guessing you wouldn’t know anything about that though, would you?”

“Alright, break it up!” Scott’s voice echoes from down the hall. He runs over, Jean and the Professor by his side. Rogue and Gambit follow close behind. But Logan doesn’t budge, the tips of his claws almost digging hard enough to draw blood.

You bring your hand to Logan’s shoulder. “He isn’t gonna hurt me,” you whisper to Logan. “I could handle him easily if he tried.” You slide your hand to the nape of his neck, trying to soothe him, to relax him. “Nothing’s going to happen, okay?”

Logan retracts his claws and lets go of Mark, who stutters away from Logan and into the center of the hallway. “I’m getting the fuck out of here!” Mark shouts, but Logan doesn’t react. He simply intertwines his fingers with yours.

“You okay?” He asks, his thumb brushing circles into the side of your hand.

You arch a brow. “Are you okay?” You smile and lean into him.

“So…” Scott trails off, interrupting. “You two are…”

“Together.” You finish his sentence, your eyes still on Logan’s. You can feel the tension in his shoulders stretch down to his hand. He’s rigid, still on edge. You know he needs to get out of here, needs to be alone with you.

“How long has this been going on?” Scott asks, genuinely caught off guard. “Did anyone know about this?”

You turn to the team to see heads shaking side to side—save for the Professor. “I did, of course,” Charles confesses. “But I felt it was best left a secret until the two lovebirds decided otherwise.”

Rogue shakes her head, the corners of her mouth twitching up. “I can’t believe you never told me!”

“Told you what?” Jubilee calls from down the hall, approaching the group. She blows a bubble as she stands next to Rogue, her eyes trailing down to where your and Logan’s hands connect. Her eyes widen and her bubble bursts. “No way!” She cheers, jumping up and down.

“Settle down,” Charles laughs, extending his hand down the hall to where Mark was just moments ago. “Scott, make sure our technopath friend makes it out the door alive.” Scott nods and heads down the hall. Charles turns to you and Logan. “As for the two of you,” he pauses, winking. “We’ll discuss more at a later point.”

You smile in understanding, and Logan squeezes your hand—another sign it’s time to go. He’s still worked up about Mark; he needs to get this out of his system, needs to relieve all the built-up tension.

“Got something I need to take care of,” Logan says to the group, tugging you down the hallway.

He strides through the mansion, practically yanking your arm out of your socket. “Logan,” you whisper, trying to catch his attention. You’ve never seen him like this—rage and jealousy like fire in his eyes, dripping from his pores. He leads you up the stairs and towards his bedroom, and it suddenly dawns on you what exactly he needs to take care of.

Logan pushes the door open and slams it closed the second you’re inside. His hands are immediately on you, grabbing at the pillowy flesh of your ass, pinning you to the door. His lips find yours—hungry and rough, the wiry hairs of his beard scratching your face. He tastes you, his tongue seeking more of you as it swipes across your lower lip. You open your mouth, inviting him in, your tongue tangling with his.

Logan hoists you up without breaking the kiss, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. You can feel his erection straining inside his jeans, pressing against your heat. He grinds into you as one hand slips under your top and drags up your back, holding you tightly against him.

“Need you,” he mumbles against your lips. “Always fucking need you.” He tears you away from the door and towards the bed. He throws you onto the mattress and climbs over you, slowly, like an animal stalking its prey. “Tell me you need me, pretty girl.”

“N-need you,” you stutter as he settles on top of you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“I’m not too old for you?” Logan teases, one of his hands loosening its grasp on your arm and trailing down your body, settling on the hem of your shirt. “You don’t wanna be with anyone else?” He hikes up your top, pushing it above your breasts.

You can feel the heat pooling between your legs. “No,” you whine, arching your back as his fingertips play with the bottom of your bra. “Only wanna be with you,” you breathe as Logan slowly, teasingly pulls your bra up. “Please,” you beg, spreading your legs wider. “Want you to fuck me.”

Logan smirks, finally tugging your bra and top over your head and casting them to the floor. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart,” Logan soothes, palming your breasts with his free hand, rolling your nipples under his thumb.

“Fuck,” you moan as he pinches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Logan hums, his fingertips trailing across the valley of your breasts, doing the same on the other side. Logan pinches harder, and you moan louder this time. “That’s it,” he coos, his lips finding your pulse point, sucking roughly. “Don’t be quiet, darlin’,” he demands. You whisper his name, your voice whiny and needy. “Show me how much you need me. Keep making those pretty little noises, baby.”

“Feels good,” you whimper as his hand traces down your stomach, to your hips, gathering the fabric of your skirt in his fist and yanking it up to your waist.

He chuckles darkly. “You wore this just for me?” He asks, his thumb hooking inside the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs. “Wanted to make it easier for me to fuck you?”

“Fuck, yes, just for you,” you pant, watching as Logan lifts himself off you, tugging his t-shirt up and over his head. He dexterously unclasps his belt buckle and throws the leather to the floor. He balances on his forearm as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, pushing them down his thighs along with his boxers. “I’m all yours, Lo,” you promise as he presses his forehead to yours.

Logan’s hand glides down your side, slipping between your legs and finding your folds. You moan as his fingertips prod at your entrance, spreading your slick. “Fuck, all this is for me?” He pinches your clit before swiping through your folds again. “You’re soaked already, princess.” His fingertips brush your clit, tracing achingly slow circles into the bud.

You rock your hips against Logan’s touch, searching for more friction. “Logan, need you,” you whine, squirming underneath him. “I’m yours.”

“All mine?” He whispers, his touch suddenly disappearing. You groan at the loss of contact. “Say it again, pretty girl,” he demands, guiding his cock to your folds.

“All yours,” you answer, trying to move your hips lower to feel just an inch of him. “Please just—”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he slams into you, down to the hilt with one thrust. He throbs against your walls as he works you open, his hips still, his cock splitting you in two. “Fuck,” Logan grunts. “So fucking tight. Perfect little pussy. Wanna stay right here forever. Maybe I won’t even fuck you. Maybe I’ll just make you sit on my cock.”

But you need him to move, need him to take you. “Logan, f-fuck me,” you choke, trying to move your hips. His hand grips your waist, stopping you from sliding up his length. “Please, move,” you plead.

“So impatient,” he chides, kissing you bruisingly, biting your lips. He finally pulls out and slams back in, bottoming out again. His hand slides down your waist and slips between your legs. “You gonna be a good girl and let me fuck you the way I want?”

His hand is just above your clit, inches away from where you need him most, waiting for your answer. You nod emphatically. “Yes,” you say with pleading eyes. “Anything. You can do anything just please—oh fuck!” Logan pinches your clit and starts his machinations, swirling around the bud. He pulls out and pumps back in, setting a ruthless pace.

His hips snap against yours, taking all of you with reckless abandon. His lips swallow your moans, consuming you, drinking you in. Of all the times he’s fucked you, it’s never been quite like this. There’s a hunger in Logan’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, an undying need you’re not sure can be satisfied. Something feels different about this time—more intense, fervent, and feverish.

Logan thrusts in and out of you, bottoming out with every pump, still stretching you out. His fingertips stroke your clit roughly, your walls already fluttering around him. He curses under his breath, his chest heaving against yours.

“Look at you,” he groans, fucking into you. “So beautiful like this. Always so beautiful.” You can feel his cock twitching inside you. “Wanna make you mine, sweetheart.”

“I-I already am,” you stammer, his fingers drawing tight, rapid circles into your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. “Always gonna be yours.”

“Want more than that,” Logan grunts, his hips rocking, his pace quickening. He’s so deep inside you—hitting exactly where you need him most with every thrust.

“Whatever you want,” you pant, your chest pressing flush to his. “It’s yours. I’m yours.”

“Yeah?” He growls at the shell of your ear. “You gonna let me fill you up? Gonna let me stuff you full of me?”

“Yes, please,” you cry out as he pumps in and out, shoving himself as deep inside as he can possibly fit. You feel so full, so complete. Nothing compares to having Logan this close, to having him be so connected to you. You’re already coming undone underneath him, falling apart. “Want you to stay inside.” And then the words fall from your lips without a second thought. But you mean it, and you want it more than anything…

“Wanna have your baby, Lo.”

Logan groans at your words, his cock throbbing with need. “Fuck, don’t tease me like that, sweetheart.”

“N-not teasing,” you stammer. “I mean it.”

“Shit,” Logan growls, his skin slapping against yours, your words spurring him on. He’s letting himself go, letting himself plunge deep inside you, fast and hard. “Such a good girl,” he praises, his length dragging against your walls, pushing deeper still. “You gonna let me fuck a baby into you?”

“Yes!” You cry out, the fire burning in your belly spreading up to your spine, coursing through your veins. Your walls flutter around his length, squeezing him tightly.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Logan coos, rutting into you, his hips stuttering. “Want you forever.”

You throw your head back as his fingers swirl around your clit. “You have me Lo, always gonna have me.” Your walls clench down around him, and the tension snaps. Electricity shoots up your spine as your orgasm crashes into you. It’s intense—more intense than anything you’ve ever felt. Pleasure washes over you in waves, heat blooming across your chest and up your neck.

Logan is right behind you, whispering a string of praises as he finishes inside you. “Did so fucking good for me. Always so perfect, beautiful.” His thrusts slow until he’s still inside you, but he doesn’t pull out. “Don’t wanna move, princess,” he husks, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

“You don’t have to,” you say, your voice hoarse. Logan rolls you onto your side, hoisting your leg up and over his hip, keeping himself deep inside your cunt. You close your eyes, your heartbeat finally steadying, your chest still heaving in time with Logan’s.

The silence is comfortable, calming. You listen to Logan’s breathing as he runs his hands up and down your back. “You okay?” He asks, pressing a chaste kiss to the crown of your head.

You hum. “I’m perfect,” you mumble, burying your face into his chest. “Do you really…” You trail off, suddenly nervous to ask the only question on your mind, despite everything that just happened.

“Yes,” Logan answers immediately. “I meant it. Wanna be a family. Wanna be with you forever.”

You melt into him, wrapping your arms around his back. You can feel his cock growing hard inside you as you move to get more comfortable. “I want that too, Lo,” you sigh. “More than anything.” You smile against him, thinking about your future, thinking about how all this started because some asshole wouldn’t leave you alone. You can’t help but giggle at the thought.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks. You can hear the smirk in his voice.

You look up at him. “You’re crazy, you know that?” You joke, your smile widening. “You could’ve hurt that guy.”

Logan’s smile widens too. “Just crazy about you,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. He flips you onto your back and hovers over you, his cock still deep inside you. “Should’ve kicked his ass.” You bite your lip, waiting for his next move. “You’re my girl,” he groans, sliding out of you slightly.

“Yours,” you breathe as he thrusts back in. “All yours.”

tags: @cosmiccandydreamer @alsoprettyinpink @alastorssimp @1800-fight-me @iamburdened @chaoticweirdogeek @loganobsessed @seasonofthenerd @witch-lemon @the-occasional-artist1125 @https-murdock @afw5 @wolviesgirl @the-ruler-of-death @xtwistedchaosx @wittyjasontodd @galacticglitterglue @silversprings-mp3 @zxaera @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @prettyseaveins @ilysmdovie12 @evasmlp @derbygracie @rammakela @honeyfewr @ricefordays-blog1 @manipulatour

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d1stalker · 4 months ago

Text

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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wndaswife · 3 months ago

Text

girl next door | wanda maximoff & fem!reader

Wanda attempts to become closer with the young woman who moved in beside her while balancing her work and personal life, though she’s doubtful of the possibility that you might be interested in her at all.

Word count: 23 310

Tags | MDNI: smut, fluff, shy idiots flirting, wanda is a cutie and kind of a pervert, specified age-gap, masturbation, fingering, cunnilingus, dildo usage, praise, wanda doesn’t know what mommy kink is yet but you can tell she’d be into it, milf!wanda maximoff, lesbian reader

Checking her rear mirror before signalling left and merging into the adjacent lane, Wanda drove around the moving truck parked outside of one of the townhouse buildings she lived beside. Beside her detached house was a townhouse owned and put up for rent for temporary long-stay renters, and often, around the beginning of the summer or the start of September, Wanda would often see professionals working in Jersey City moving in.

It was the start of the summer now, and there were presently movers helping to carry small pieces of furniture through the open townhouse doors. It was furnished inside, Wanda assumed, though the furniture they were bringing in seemed to be building up to some sort of office — perhaps there was an extra empty room in there for renters, and whoever was moving in was setting up a workspace.

Wanda nearly missed her driveway while she was scrutinising everything the movers were bringing in, trying to pin down whoever it was that was renting. When Wanda stepped out and shut the car door, she could see a young woman from above the roof of her car stepping out of the townhouse’s front door, talking with the movers and letting them know where to place the furniture.

Just when it seemed that the young woman’s gaze shifted over to Wanda, who was, admittedly, staring a bit too hard, Wanda’s phone buzzed with an incoming phone call and she quickly broke eye contact to pick it up. She locked her car and walked up to her front door, carrying a stack of paperwork of upcoming orders that she needed to sort through.

She thought of you again while making dinner, curious about you for some reason she didn’t quite understand. She wondered if you were just a younger relative helping the actual renter move in, or if someone who looked as young as you had really moved into Westview by herself just beside her.

From the kitchen island counter where she was standing eating her dinner, Wanda looked through the living room window where she could watch you continue to unpack a few small things from the back of your trunk. She regarded you curiously; perhaps it was your age or the fact that you seemed to have moved in alone that seemed to be interesting to her, though Wanda wasn’t sure why any of that would necessarily pique her interest as she felt like it had.

In the morning, Wanda prepared for the twins’ arrival in the afternoon when she’d have to pick them up after work, waking up with enough time to clean.

Vision, Wanda’s ex-husband, worked as an attorney in New Jersey and often stayed in New York, but when it was his turn with the twins, he stayed in New Jersey — much closer to Westview.

Wanda had always counted herself as lucky for having been married to and having children with a good man. Though she and Vision were necessarily divorced, she never had to worry about what would become of their connection, and she knew that their relationship wouldn’t regress into something difficult between the both of them nor with their children.

However it became rather clear as their relationship progressed, especially after they had children, that the directions of their ambitions and perspectives of their lives were diverting from each other; nothing about them aligned except for their children.

Vision was Wanda’s neighbour when she first moved into her apartment once arriving in America alone. He was smart and very kind and showed her around. He was a westernised Brit, which was palatable for Wanda who found security with a man who knew so much about the country she had just moved to, but who also wasn’t overbearing, and was rather well-mannered and docile.

When they first met, Vision was finishing his second last year of law school, and Wanda didn’t have much going on for herself until she made plans to open a business. It all went quite fast after they married; Vision passed his bar and Wanda’s floral shop had begun to find its footing, and they decided to finally have a family.

But Vision’s career and dreams took him further than what Westview could offer, and Wanda wasn’t the same young woman with wide-eyes and unsteady footing like she was when they met — she had dreams too, and children.

By the time the twins turned two, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that things were different. Their dynamic had changed, they weren’t of the same mind as they used to be, and Vision could tell that Wanda had changed too; she hadn’t intended to be distant, but it always felt like her life took place somewhere her husband couldn’t reach. She was changing and growing, and she didn’t need a crutch to lean on anymore.

She wasn’t as unsteady and lost as she used to be.

By the time she was leaving the house, it should’ve been around the time that Vision was dropping the twins off, but instead, she opened the door to see them running up the porch stairs.

Surprised at the way they rushed passed her, both giving her a quick hello before they ran up the stairs, Wanda stuttered, “What–”

“They forgot their class projects,” Vision explained with an awkward smile, stepping onto the porch and watching Tommy and Billy dash into their rooms.

“The Bristol boards?”

He nodded.

“Did they behave?” she asked, holding her purse with both hands in front of her.

“Of course,” her ex-husband answered with a smile. “We went to the cinema on Friday. Tommy cried during the final scene and Billy was quite supportive.”

Wanda and Vision shared a laugh, and chatted about how it was going with the new firm he was with and about Wanda’s shop, until the twins came back down holding their school projects.

“Good luck on your presentations today,” Wanda told them and leaned down, holding each of their faces delicately and kissing each of their foreheads.

“Thank you, mama,” Billy replied cheerily and gave her the best hug he could with his other arm full of Bristol board.

Vision and Wanda spoke a little more about when he would pick them up this weekend for their grandfather’s birthday, which Wanda couldn’t attend because she had promised to help set up a town event celebrating the start of the new season.

Westview was a popular destination during the Spring for it was located in a relatively secluded area of New Jersey, and well-known for its nature reserves, which also meant Westview well-decorated for the season.

That also meant Wanda and her floral shop were always hard at work throughout the start of Spring.

From the corner of her eye, Wanda saw your car pull into the driveway, and for a moment she saw you briefly running your eyes over her and Vision and the twins in the car.

Throughout the day, Wanda thought of you for the same reason as she did last night, and with the same degree of inexplicability. While she signed and read through paperwork for orders and put together arrangements alongside her employees, she thought of how long you might be renting and where you’d come from. She thought of the kind of flowers you might like; she tried her best to recall the furniture and items you’d brought in yesterday to try and pin down your style.

Once she realised how much she’d been thinking of you and realising it was strange that she kept acting as if she hadn’t been thinking of you, Wanda decided to put together a bouquet for you as a welcome gift.

After she picked the twins up from school, she was sure to keep the bouquet in its vase secured in the passenger’s seat, checking on it occasionally as she spoke with the boys about how their days and presentations went.

“Go put your things away,” Wanda told them as she ushered them through the front door, “I’ll come to help you with your homework in just a minute.” She locked the front door and headed back to her car, reaching into the passenger’s seat for the bouquet.

Your car was in the driveway, and she could see some movement through the window beside the dining room.

For the first time since she even thought to put the bouquet together, Wanda wondered if she was coming off too strong, or even too strange. After all, why would the older woman neighbouring you introduce herself with a bouquet of flowers?

Wanda could justify herself to you; she owned a floral shop and was working all day and didn’t have time to give you anything else and she always made a point to be friendly to neighbours.

Before she could even justify herself to herself, she was already knocking on your front door holding the vase securely with two hands. She heard some rustling beyond the door, and a few chaotic tumbles, before the front door opened and Wanda got a good look at you for the first time.

You were young — a college student, she presumed — and pretty.

Wanda felt her words catch in her throat and she internally panicked trying to get some form of an introduction out. She hadn’t known what she had expected from you when she knocked on your door or what unsuspecting part of her curiosity was taken aback by your appearance, but Wanda forced out an introduction as normal-seeming as she could.

“Hi,” she said with a friendly smile, “I’m Wanda Maximoff, your next-door neighbour.”

Panicked and deciding that her initial introduction wasn’t enough, she added, “I thought I should introduce myself.”

She couldn’t seem to stop rambling. “A-And I work at a floral shop in the shopping district, hence the flowers,” she explained then held the vase out to you.

You seemed genuinely happy and appreciative when you replied, “Oh, that’s so nice of you! Thank you so much.” Wanda was grateful when you took the bouquet from her and didn’t look like you thought the gesture was strange.

“I was hoping I might be able to meet some people from the neighbourhood soon and maybe explore Westview a little,” you told her, “but I’ve just been so busy unpacking — so thank you, really.”

“I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you,” you introduced yourself. “I saw you this morning and thought to say hello today too, but I think I’ve just been so overwhelmed with the move.”

Wanda thought you were sweet and rather cute. She attributed it to the fact that you stood out from the other people of Westview who were older and a bit less spry. “It’s normal to be a bit overwhelmed once first moving into a new place,” she told you supportively. “I’m sure you’ll adjust in no time; Westview is easy to get comfortable in.”

“Thank you,” you answered graciously. “I’m happy to finally be able to talk to someone here.”

You were trusting and talkative too, Wanda noted.

“I would be happy to show you around whenever you have some free time,” Wanda found herself offering quicker than she could think through what she was saying. She added, trying to save her first impression, “Only if you don’t mind — I assume you’re a student and rather busy.”

“I would really love to have a tour!” you answered enthusiastically. “Thank you so much. I feel adjusted to Westview already.”

Wanda felt herself flush, feeling appreciated and flattered by your words.

“Would it be okay if we exchanged numbers?” you asked. “I can let you know when I’m free next! I should be sometime at the end of the week; I don’t start my work until next week.”

“O-Of course, that’s completely okay,” Wanda said with a wide neighbourly smile, stuttering slightly for a reason she couldn’t exactly explain to herself. It was normal to exchange numbers with acquaintances, but the idea of you asking for her number made her feel excited.

You kept taking her by surprise, though she wasn’t sure why.

For the rest of the night, Wanda tended to the twins — helping them with their homework, making them dinner, and playing Minecraft with them before bed.

They said she was bad at it, but they always asked for her to play with them.

As she got ready in her washroom after putting the boys to bed, Wanda picked up her phone at the sound of a text and found a message from you: Hi Ms Maximoff, it’s Y/N! Thanks again for the flowers, they’re beautiful.

The way in which you addressed her was all too formal, but there was something about how polite and proper it was that she enjoyed, even if it made her feel a little old.

While Wanda found herself smiling at her phone and thinking up a way to reply, you texted again: You mentioned you worked at a floral shop in town. Where is it located?

Eventually, you spoke to her about what you were studying and what you were in Westview for and for how long. She talked about Tommy and Billy and their father and when she opened her business. You and Wanda continued to text you back and forth until she realised she had stayed up about thirty minutes past when she planned to sleep, and she had to tell you goodnight.

Wanda couldn’t remember the last time someone seemed so genuinely interested in her life and interested in sharing things about themselves with her. It made her feel interesting and paid attention to.

In the morning immediately after dropping the twins off and saying goodbye to them, her thoughts went to you and the conversation you shared together last night.

You had just graduated and were now doing research with a professor, and you wanted to explore some research before beginning your Master’s. Since your professor’s research institute was located closer to Westview than northern New Jersey, you decided to move to Westview for the duration of your six-month research period.

Around the beginning of the day Wanda thought of you the most, wondering particularly about when she might see you again and when you might be free, until the afternoon rolled around when her scheduled employees came in and she started picking up the pace with her orders and arrangements.

It wasn’t a large shop, so there were typically four people working there at a time. One dealt with walk-in orders and those who wanted to purchase anything on display in the front, another with shipments and administrative work, and two that helped with preparing and putting together the arrangements.

Wanda oversaw and managed all of it along with Agatha, who she’d opened the shop with, so she worked each day aside from Fridays and Saturdays — unless she needed to be at work — and Sundays when the shop was closed.

Spring was busy for them, but Westview was a rather small town and their shop was also local and a bit smaller. However, it was from Wanda’s shop that businesses and sometimes the town ordered intricate arrangements for events or for statement display pieces.

But by the late afternoon, the shop had a visitor that Wanda hadn’t expected.

“Y/N,” Wanda uttered at the sight of you walking into the shop, looking around at the vases and flowers and succulents on display.

“Hi,” you greeted with a smile once you walked up to the cash register.

Wanda’s smile widened and she felt herself excited and unsteady at the thought that you might have come into the shop purposely just to visit her — but she couldn’t jump to conclusions. “Are you looking for another bouquet?” she teased.

You laughed and Wanda felt her chest flutter.

“No, not yet,” you answered. “I just thought I would return the welcome favour with a gift.”

You laid a cup of tea and a pastry on the counter between the both of you and Wanda found herself speechless by your gesture — you had come just to visit her after she told you where she worked, and you had brought a gift for her too.

“I finally got the chance to walk around today, and I thought to visit the shopping district first and stopped by the café down the street to get something for you. I hope you’re okay with Oolong.”

“Y/N…” Wanda didn’t know what to say, her hands laying themselves by the tea and pastry but not having enough confidence to take them. “You really didn’t have to — and to have come all the way over here!”

You laid your hand atop of Wanda’s and she felt her cheeks flush, her eyes flickering down to your soft hand for a brief moment before looking back up at your soft expression. “But I wanted to,” you told her, then retracted your hand. “I really am grateful and I hoped to be able to make my own impression if not pay you back for the gift.”

Wanda felt so warm and she finally gave in, taking the tea and pastry and moving it closer to her and beside the cash register. “Thank you so much, that’s very kind,” she said.

To have someone think of her so much, to go out of their way during their first day free from unpacking to visit her and make such a thoughtful gesture instilled in Wanda a feeling she hadn’t felt in a very long time — or ever, if she really thought about it.

She felt so cared for, and seen.

“Have you been liking the town so far?” she asked.

You nodded. “Westview is really beautiful, and I’m happy to have chosen to move here,” you answered.

“But you seem busy,” you said, looking around at the employees walking behind her with papers or assortments of flowers in their hands. “Hopefully we’re both free soon so you can show me around your favourite spots.”

“I’m really looking forward to that,” Wanda replied with an eager smile.

Over the next while, Wanda’s free time completely diminished and she struggled to find any time to see you like she’d promised or even talking with you in-person or over the phone.

You sometimes see her coming back late, sometimes looking fatigued or just in a rush to finally get home, so you didn’t want to push by messaging or visiting her, intruding where you shouldn’t as a neighbour and a new friend.

You imagined that the mere thought of you must just be another task she must complete and try to fit into her schedule, so you didn’t want to impose yourself and overwhelm her.

Wanda also thought often about reaching out to you just to ask how you’d been and to let you know that she’d just been rather overwhelmed for the last two weeks, but that she’d been thinking of you and hoping her schedule might free up soon.

She felt disappointed in the timing too, because she knew that your research project had already begun.

But she thought the attempts would be fruitless and unwanted — why message you just to say she still couldn’t fulfil her promise?

There was one time you nearly had a proper conversation with her a few days ago. You were outside planting some flowers you had bought, finally having finished packing inside and deciding that it was time to decorate the exterior of your place too.

Wanda was waiting for a ride from her coworker as her car was in the shop, and she had gone out to wait for her at the same time you were outside.

She asked how your research had been going and you spoke a little about that, but you spoke more about the flowers you were planting and Wanda’s tips on how to take care of them.

The conversation ended abruptly though the both of you had plenty more to say when a brunette older woman around Wanda’s age pulled into her driveway — and in a rather gorgeous vintage car.

A few times, Wanda saw you walking around town with Dottie, a teacher at Tommy and Billy’s school and a member of the town council, and Wanda sometimes saw her at the meetings when she occasionally stopped by.

They interacted a handful of times during events, but first met when she was Tommy and Billy’s teacher. She came off as condescending, at least to Wanda, but got along just fine with Vision.

She didn’t think there was any particular reason that Dottie would dislike her, but she understood that it did sometimes happen that some people just didn’t get along by nature. But she seemed to be getting along with you just fine — quite well actually, for how often she saw you walking together.

Over time when she had begun to hear from you less, Wanda figured that perhaps you had only just wanted to make a friend in Westview, and Dottie was around far more than she was.

Wanda supposed that Dottie was perhaps a bit more enthusiastic also. She was younger than her too, which Wanda guessed was something that you might like more — perhaps you had more in common with her.

It seemed like the only thing that aligned well between you and Wanda was where you lived.

“Ms Maximoff!” you called from your driveway, and Wanda turned to see you waving at her.

It was around six in the morning, and Wanda had to head to the shop early to receive some shipments.

“Hi, Y/N,” she answered and waved back with a pleased smile.

The two of you bridged the gap between the two driveways and met in between.

“Good morning,” Wanda greeted, her smile wider upon seeing you much closer.

Your eagerness to speak with her was refreshing and quite nice.

“Morning,” you replied. “Are you heading to work?”

She nodded and explained, “I have a few shipments coming in today that I need to be there for. And you? Are you heading to your professor’s office?”

“I am, yeah,” you said, a bit wearily as if feeling sheepish.

Sometimes you felt a little shy bringing up things that made the age difference between you and Wanda all the more obvious, like how you were basically going off to school just like her kids would while she was heading off to work at a shop she owned.

Wanda was about to ask why you seemed to lack enthusiasm about heading there, but then you asked: “Can I drive you to work? I can pick you up when you’re off.”

The offer took Wanda by surprise. You were so considerate of her, and without even a second thought to it. “O-Oh, really?” she stuttered. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve been coming home late recently; I don’t want to keep you up or bother you with waiting for me.”

“I know,” you said. “I hope it’s not stalkerish — it’s by complete coincidence, I promise — but sometimes I do see you coming home a bit later. But I have some things to read for my professor today that I’ll take home to do tonight, so I’ll be up.”

“That’s… really sweet. But why go out of your way?”

She couldn’t tell because you were facing away from the sunrise so your face had casted shadow upon it, but it seemed like you were blushing as if having been caught in an act.

Wanda only regarded you with curiosity, squinting a little against the sun so she could see you better.

“I don’t want to come off as pushy, I apologise,” you quickly explained. “It was just something that came to mind.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant,” Wanda replied, waving her hands in front of her and placing a hand on your arm reassuringly when you looked unsure of yourself. She tried to conjure up something to explain why she was so confused and surprised by your kindnesses, but was quickly shut up by her own hand at the feeling of your still arm under her palm and the meeting of your eyes with hers.

She dropped her hand and tucked her hair behind her ear, trying to sort through her thoughts for you.

The more Wanda thought about why it was so difficult to navigate your personality, the more she came to the realisation that aside from friends, and coworkers — which category, for whatever reason, Wanda didn’t think you fell into in that same informality — the only other experience she could call on was that which she had with Vision.

He was very formal and docile, and never took risks or said or did things out of what was expected. It seemed often that he was filling a role or going through the motions of things, which had never been very much of a problem for Wanda, who had thoroughly appreciated how static and steady he was.

As such, Wanda found herself often flustered and surprised by your affectionate gestures that told her you were interested in spending time with her, and spared no subtlety.

“I just feel a little guilty for having no time lately, and I haven’t really done you any favours,” she explained. “I think I just feel surprised when you take the time out of your day to think of me.”

Wanda worried that she might have embarrassed you, and she stayed silent, trying not to fuck anything else up by rambling in the way that she always felt like doing. She forgot that you had just finished your undergrad and that she was, in stark comparison, thirty-two years old, divorced, and living in a small town in New Jersey with two young kids.

Maybe she was struggling to view you in the casual way that anyone else in her shoes ought to, to see you like a neighbour or a passerby or a temporary renter of the house she lived beside.

But if not any of those came naturally to her, how did she see you?

Why did she keep thinking of how you saw Dottie?

“I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t sound like I was rejecting your kindness,” she added, unable to keep quiet for even a moment.

“Why do you feel like you have to do favours for me?” you asked. “It’s okay if you do nothing for me ever, actually. I think I just like your company.”

Did you like consistency, a stable presence?

Did it bother you that she had introduced herself to you, then didn’t talk much afterwards?

Was trying to see her more a form of seeking consistency in a new town, rather than out of an actual desire of seeing her?

“I would love to get a ride from you,” Wanda told you and smiled. “Thank you. And I don’t think you come off as pushy at all.”

You and Wanda talked a lot on the drive to the shop.

She told you that she’d been extremely stressed with balancing everything and getting everything prepared in time, and always tried to finish most if not all of her work before the weekends so she could spend the most of it with her sons.

Thankfully, she’d been able to catch up with everything as the orders had died down, and she predicted that she may be finished before the upcoming weekend.

“Um, I don’t know if maybe you might not want to — so feel free to say no, since I know you have stuff going on,” you said once you parked in front of Wanda’s shop. “But I went to this really nice garden a few days ago and saw that next weekend there’s a Spring festival event, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

Before Wanda could answer, you added quickly, “Again, also, I don’t wanna add to your stress.”

“Y/N,” Wanda said, softly, before reaching over to place her hand atop of yours where it laid on your thigh. “I would love to go with you. I don’t think you’re a bother, and it wouldn’t add to my stress to see you at all. In fact, I think I would thoroughly enjoy taking the weekend to relax with you.”

“Really?”

Wanda nodded and smiled. “Westview has the Spring festival every year — it’s one of the reasons I’m quite busy at the shop at the start of the season.”

“Would your kids like to go?”

“Their father is taking them to New York City this weekend, so it’ll be just you and I, if that’s okay.”

The enthusiasm written on your face at her answer made Wanda giggle.

—

��What’s got you so jolly at six in the morning?” Agatha asked as she was unloading the shipment of glass vases from the delivery truck.

“What?” Wanda asked, looking up from her bag that she had placed in the backroom to start helping her unload.

The two women had been friends since Wanda moved into Westview with Vision years ago. She was there for her before they divorced, during it, and after, and helped Wanda open her business.

In fact, Agatha was Wanda’s right-hand woman in the shop, and they worked closely in terms of their job position and responsibilities.

Agatha stood up straight and put her hands on her hips, surveying her best friend.

“What are you looking at?” Wanda inquired hastily, leaning over to try and lift up a rather large securely-wrapped vase — it was for a new store’s grand opening for this upcoming weekend, so they ordered a rather large ensemble. “Can you help me?”

She ignored Wanda’s request for help and pressed on. “Are you seeing someone?”

“What? No! I’m not seeing anyone.”

Agatha squinted and her fingers tapped distractedly against her hip. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Agatha, I’m sure. Please–”

“Did you sleep with someone last night? A one-night stand, then.”

Wanda stood up straight and put her hands on her own hips defiantly. “No!” she answered with finality. “Why are you asking me all this?”

“You just look like…”

“Like what?”

“You look smitten.”

She never used the term smitten in thinking about how she felt about you, but to have someone else call it that made Wanda reevaluate her feelings toward you.

Is that how she felt?

“It’s just nice to be noticed… and-and taken care of,” Wanda said as she and Agatha started restocking the inventory room, with Wanda checking things off their checklist and taking inventory count — albeit distractedly.

“Honey,” Agatha started, setting down a planter on the table Wanda was leaning her hip on and standing in front of her. “I’m so happy that you’ve met Y/N, and she seems really sweet, but I hope you know what you’re doing with someone younger than you.”

She added, “It’s not like this is something familiar to you. The only person you’ve really been with is your ex-husband, and you were the younger woman.”

Wanda looked down at the checklist, thinking. “I don’t think I’m really expecting her to… to want anything. I don’t think she could even be interested in that,” she said. “I think maybe I should just see things from a black-and-white perspective — see things as they are.”

“Don’t get me wrong — I don’t want to deter you from pursuing who you’re interested in, Wanda,” Agatha told her. “I just don’t want to see you hurt. I know you’ve been married and that you have kids, but you have a wide-eyed view of the world. I don’t want to see you get hurt or let down.”

—

“Were you busy today?” you asked as you held the passenger door open for Wanda.

“Thank you,” she said with a grateful smile as she slid in. “No — Agatha was working with me all day.”

When you got into the driver’s seat, you asked, “Who’s that?”

“She’s a good friend of mine, and we opened the shop together,” Wanda explained, buckling herself in. “How was your day?”

The conversation was so casual and almost domestic, and the comfort of being able to see you after work felt a lot like coming back home after a long day.

“I guess not so bad,” you answered, making your way home. “I was reading and taking notes all day.”

After a moment of trying to garner some confidence, Wanda spoke. “Y/N, I want to say that I really appreciate your company, and how kind you’ve been to me,” she said honestly, playing with her fingers with her hands tucked between her thighs. “I don’t have a lot of time to meet new people, and Westview is rather small, so it’s also rare for anyone to be as thoughtful as you.”

She added, “I thought I should be honest, and I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate the time you take for me.”

You shifted a little in your seat, and Wanda thought maybe you were just taking a moment to choose your words carefully.

“I didn’t think you were unappreciative,” you reassured. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

Friendly.

Wanda looked at you for a few moments, studying your face, until you turned and smiled at her. She returned the smile and looked back to the road silently.

Had she embarrassed you this morning?

Was she misreading things?

She wanted to sink into the seat and fall right through to the core of the earth.

The rest of the drive was filled mostly with small talk, though it didn’t feel very awkward. However, Wanda felt like she was on edge, like she had some responsibility to be more direct or open, and she didn’t quite know how else to be anything but hesitant and unsure of herself.

She felt disappointed when you pulled into her driveway, now having been unable to communicate her affection for you properly throughout the drive.

“By the way, uh…” You scratched the back of your neck awkwardly and Wanda looked at you, anxious about what you might say.

If you were going to apologise for being so forward and open with her, she wouldn’t know what to do next. She wanted to keep becoming closer with you, and to spend time with you like you’d discussed, and she wouldn’t know how to take that up on her own if you decided to apologise for everything.

“I made you dinner,” you said finally and turned around to reach in the backseat to hand Wanda a tupperware of pasta that was still quite warm. “You’re always coming back late, and I’m sometimes having dinner later because I just get caught up with the work I’m doing, so I thought I’d just make you some since I was gonna pick you up.”

You had an awkward, nervous smile on your lips and your thumb kept tapping against the lid as you spoke.

Wanda melted, her hand coming to her chest as she leaned forward to take a look at what looked like spaghetti. “Y/N, I don’t know what to say… You didn’t have to…”

She felt truly a loss for words, being entirely unable to remember the last time someone had been so considerate of her.

Since her divorce, most of Wanda’s life had been occupied by her job and her children. It wasn’t anything to complain about, and she very rarely ever did, but your kindness and attention the past little while reminded her of how infrequently she had anything new happen in her life.

“You’re so considerate of me,” she said as sincerely as she could communicate, looking up from the food and at you, who met her eyes with a soft blush before looking away.

The bashfulness of your reaction made Wanda take her bottom lip between her teeth, a small grin forming on her lips, equally as nervous but also fueled by her intrigue in you.

“Thank you for driving me and making me dinner,” Wanda said after unlocking her front door.

When she turned, you were standing on her porch looking at her expectantly, the tupperware in hand. She thought you looked so sweet… and young — just innocent.

There was something so delicate about the respectful distance the both of you kept, a lingering interest in one another, and something that just felt tense.

It made Wanda ache in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

Even with Vision, the excitement she’d felt with him was different from what she was feeling now. She was so young back when they first met, and the pull she’d felt towards him was similar to that of a lighthouse’s to a stranded sailor.

There was so much she’d yet to learn or live through when she first met him, and she often wondered how things might’ve been if she hadn’t spent so much of her time tied down.

But at the end of everything, there were the twins, and Wanda could never truly wish for anything that had happened up until now to change if it meant not having them.

If she thought about it, it seemed that most of what she did was settle for a lack of other opportunity; nothing very new or exciting happened in her life nor in Westview, and by the time she was no longer who she was when she first moved to America, she was engaged with plans for children and a future with the first man she’d met when she came here.

She suddenly felt quite determined to become close with you, for it certainly wasn’t very often that anyone paid her any mind.

Especially not someone like you.

“I really enjoy your company, Ms Maximoff, and I know you think I’m always going so far out of my way for you, but honestly, I like to be able to help,” you insisted.

Wanda felt a surge in the depths of her lower stomach and up to her chest at the polite tone of your voice and the way you looked in the warm orange of her porch light. She stepped forward and took the tupperware from you. She wrapped an arm around your upper back and pecked your cheek.

“The effort isn’t lost on me, I assure you,” she said, then pulled away with a soft smile to find your cheeks slightly flushed and your eyes darting around nervously. Her smile could only widen in response and she laughed a little, pulling away from you to head inside.

She bid you a goodbye with a wave of her hand which you returned, and Wanda closed the front door behind her.

Almost immediately once she closed the door, the twins called from their father’s phone to talk with her before they headed to bed; sometimes they called in the evenings when they were away, and especially if they’d done something fun with their father earlier.

They greeted her together: “Hi, mom!”

“Hi, boys,” she replied with a widening grin as she set her things down, balancing your tupperware in the other arm. “Shouldn’t you be asleep by now?”

Then there came the excuses of wanting to stay up to speak with her. She thought they were cute when they were making excuses, so she pretended she didn’t catch on.

It wasn’t until after the call ended and Wanda was in the middle of eating the dinner you’d prepared for her that she finally had time to reflect on some things.

Firstly, the dinner was delicious, and so that made a marvellous impression in her mind about you as a well-put-together student who knew how to cook for herself.

Then she wondered — worried, even — if the kiss was going a bit too far. But you didn’t seem uncomfortable, and there was something about you that made Wanda think you were–

She frowned at herself, rubbing her forehead with the hand she was holding her fork in as she nearly came to a thought that she wouldn’t be able to decipher between projection and reality.

And if it were projection, that must mean there was some sort of intentionality behind it.

Maybe Agatha was right, and she really was smitten.

What would anyone else call it — a crush?

That made her nose wrinkle up as she poked at the pasta, deep in thought; older women didn’t get crushes. Older women were presently married or they got divorced.

But a college student, for crying out loud…

What was she thinking?

She took her bottom lip between her teeth and stared at her phone, trying to repress the urge to text you about dinner as if she hadn’t just been scolding herself for the complicated feelings she was having about you.

Giving in, she set the fork down and texted you, telling you that the dinner was delicious, and moreover, that she would certainly have to find a way to pay you back and buy you a meal this weekend.

She thought she was acting ridiculous for having just previously been feeling conflicted for how she was feeling and now itching to hear a response from you.

Wanda moved her empty bowl away and hid her face in her arms, feeling helpless for the fluttery way she continued to feel in her stomach in spite of how her mind desperately tried to come up with ways to reason her thoughts of you away.

She knew what anyone would call her — a divorcée desperate for attention from a younger girl who wasn’t as caught up with life as people her age were and so, predictably, Wanda clung onto you.

But it wasn’t like she couldn’t get the attention of other people.

Once Wanda had signed up for a dating app upon Agatha’s advice, and she thought it was rather easy to find people interested in her, though often attracting men she didn’t feel very invested in at all nor whom she ever enjoyed seeing enough for a second date.

Not very often, but here and there, Wanda would be approached by men in public too.

She always thought her lack of interest was because she was too busy, and even entertained the idea that perhaps she just wasn’t cut out for any kind of relationship after her marriage.

But she didn’t feel that way at all about you. She thought you were sweet and rather cute and though she had to admit there was something about your age that enticed her, she also really enjoyed talking with you when she could over text, and often looked forward to passing by you in the driveway.

She was curious about things like your schooling and what you thought of Westview, and more about where you’d come from and how you decorated the inside of your place.

And there was a feeling deep within her chest and rising up her belly when she was around you or when you spoke with her, blushing around her or smiling in the shy way you did, that she couldn’t recall if she felt with Vision at all.

As Wanda got ready for bed and pretended like there wasn’t a reason she carried her phone with her to the washroom, she thought more about how she felt about Vision when they first met, and questioned her attraction to him.

There were times when she certainly felt attracted, though most typically when they were about to have sex and more frequently after they got married, but she couldn’t recall if the interest she felt with you this early into knowing you was ever involved in how she regarded Vision.

She just couldn’t stop thinking about how unsure and confused she was during the time of her life when they’d first met, and how that differed greatly from the place she was in now.

While getting into bed, Wanda’s phone buzzed. She picked it up faster than she’d like to admit.

You texted: Yay! Glad you like it!! I’m really looking forward to this weekend :)

A smile came to Wanda’s face as she read your text and she slowly descended into the comfort of her sheets as she replied. Perhaps she should’ve just liked the message and headed to bed, but after thinking of you for so long, she couldn’t help but want to talk a little more.

She replied: Are you still up doing work? Or are you heading to bed soon?

The response was read almost immediately and Wanda felt her heart race.

Just one more thing I have to do, then bedtime.. I hope you sleep well, Ms Maximoff <3

Wanda felt a rush surge through her and she inhaled sharply after reading the message, feeling her fingers partially frozen for a moment.

It was at a time in her relationship with you that you could start calling her by her first name, and really, the formalities made her feel a little old.

But also, there was something she liked about how polite you were — the shy smile on your face as you called her Ms Maximoff, how well-mannered you were.

And if she really thought about it… Wanda thought it placed her in a position of some authority, implying not only an age difference but a power dynamic when you addressed her.

It was new for her.

Don’t overwork yourself, Y/N :) Sweet dreams.

Wanda set her phone down and stared up at the ceiling. She wondered if you’ve ever been interested in an older woman before. Her cheeks immediately warmed at the thought — calling herself an older woman, carrying with it some sort of scandalous implication, and imagining you, someone so innocent and sweet, involved in it.

Her thoughts wandered before she could stop them, thinking of what that dynamic might be like.

Did she suit the ‘older woman’ character? Didn’t someone young like you need someone older and experienced, and confident about their sexuality? Isn’t that how these things normally went?

But she hardly knew anything, and only had one very short fling with a man since her divorce.

She’d never even been with a woman, let alone a younger girl.

Wanda turned onto her side and brought her plush blankets up to her face, the cold surface of it cooling her flushed cheeks.

But she couldn’t help but really think about it… As in, the kind of relationship and dynamic the two of you might have together if it really did happen, and if, maybe, she wasn’t making it all up.

If you had the capacity to like an older woman, that must’ve meant you had been with other girls before.

The thought of it made Wanda’s heart race.

She’d heard from Agatha the difference between being with a woman and with a man, that women were softer and smarter, knowing how to touch another woman as if she were herself, never thinking of imposing herself upon her like men did.

Sleeping with a woman is a form of masturbation, she’d said, for how women knew each other like they knew themselves.

Wanda wondered if you were as gentle with a lover as you were by your nature, for she knew that some people were vastly different in the bedroom than they were outside of it.

The thought of you exploring her body with your open palms and curved fingers, just as considerate and kind as you always were with her, a shaky ‘Ms Maximoff, is this okay?’ spilling from your lips as you moved closer–

Wanda squeezed her eyes shut and turned onto her other side, her fingers tightening around her blankets as she felt an undeniable ache growing between her thighs.

Daring to act defiantly against her sense of shame and dignity, trembling fingers slipped beneath her pajama shorts, not daring to go farther than her hips.

Her nails sunk into her right hip, scratching lightly at the skin as she held herself back, only for her thoughts to wander to the idea of your clumsy hands grabbing at her hips, your nails pressing into her skin as you pulled her closer, your breath shaky.

She took one of her pillows and lifted her blanket up, tucking it between her thighs and up against her clothed centre.

Taking her bottom lip between her teeth and hiding the top half of her face with her hand, she dared to roll her hips forward to satisfy the pressure between her thighs. But it was too dull for how her clit throbbed, desperate for further contact.

Frustrated at both how she was giving in and with how she had grown so desperate to the point of hastily pushing the pillow out of the way, she slipped her fingers past the waistband of her shorts and underwear.

The pads of her fingers met with the warmth of her sticky folds and Wanda whimpered into her pillow, turning her head and hiding from some invisible presence that she imagined was looking down at the display she was putting on.

She circled her middle finger against her clit and she shuddered, goosebumps running up her thighs as she tightly wrapped an arm around the pillow she’d previously pushed away, and she pulled it to her chest.

When she felt she was wet enough, and at the feeling of how she began tightening around nothing, her eyebrows furrowed together as she entered herself with two fingers, her thighs parting to allow her wrist some room.

She couldn’t help the way her mind went to you, not when her body urged to feel more; her thoughts summoned the thought of you, daring to imagine you beneath her, your hands running up her bare hips and up to hold her waist, the look of your face contorted with pleasure, your eyes meeting hers.

She’d never considered herself very assertive, especially not in the bedroom, but there was just something about you that awoke something in her that was completely foreign.

The idea of it excited her.

She’d never felt so… aroused.

Her thoughts gradually became more shameful, thinking about how you sounded like when you orgasmed, and particularly enjoying the idea that you’d be shy to make noise, prone to begging, and one to be eager to please your lover.

Wanda felt herself inch closer to her climax.

Maybe you’d be nervous to be with an older woman, hesitant to touch her and worried about being disrespectful. The thought of herself encouraging you, no longer being unsure and passive about things, sent a thrill through Wanda that she was certain she’d never felt before.

All this she associated only with you, and as she felt herself begin to tighten around her fingers, Wanda’s mind was full of you, shamelessly, and her heart pounded against her ribcage.

She came, crying out partially-muffled with half her face buried in her pillow, her wrist sore and her fingers numb to the repetitive speed at which she fingered herself.

When she fell back down from her height, her previously-arched back met the damp sheets beneath her and she felt momentarily anaesthetised as she caught her breath.

She groaned at how fatigued she felt, not having had such a tiring orgasm in a while, much less with just her fingers.

While she was washing her hands, she thought of you, wondered if you’d ever touched yourself to the thought of her, and soon squarely came to the decision that she would pursue you.

She’d made quite a mess of herself, and decided to also change her underwear before heading to bed.

The next few days before the weekend approached, Wanda felt increasingly encouraged every time she interacted with you, especially after having kissed you on the cheek that night. She still felt that she’d gone a little too far, but you still seemed to really like her.

She realised that she didn’t know as much about you as she’d like, and became increasingly enthusiastic about thst weekend when she’d be able to spend more time with you.

On Friday, you and Wanda made plans for the weekend, and it was agreed that she would drive the both of you to the festival then back home to repay you for a few nights ago.

Dressed in a sundress that reached below her knees and deciding to go with her hair down, Wanda nervously crossed the strip of grass that divided your two driveways and walked up to your front door.

It was convenient that you were neighbours, but the space between the two of you left very little time for Wanda to soothe her own anxiety as she prepared for a day out together.

You opened the front door and stepped through as if not trying to waste a moment to head out.

“Hi,” you said with a smile as you stepped onto the porch before turning to lock the front door.

“Hi,” she answered and returned the polite smile when you turned back around, slightly nervous with her hands held in front of her body, holding her purse.

Wanda was suddenly overcome at your momentary undivided attention, feeling that if you scrutinised her just enough, you’d be able to read on her face what she had done to the thought of you that first night it happened, and nearly every night since.

It was the first time she was seeing you since then beyond some short conversations in the driveway, and some paranoid part of her thought you secretly knew all she’d been doing.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you with your hair down,” you noted as we drove to the town square where the festival was taking place. “Did you curl it a little?”

Feeling suddenly self-conscious now that you’d noticed, Wanda took one hand off the wheel and played with the ends of her hair. “Um,” she hesitated. “I did — a little.”

“No, I mean, it’s really pretty, Ms Maximoff,” you quickly said in case she got the wrong idea.

Feeling that perhaps you might’ve been teasing, for whatever reason, Wanda looked over at you momentarily and found you looking over at her. You met her eyes with a small encouraging smile and Wanda looked back onto the road.

“Thank you,” she replied, a smile of her own slowly growing. “I don’t usually do anything with it because I’m either working or at home, and don’t often dress up for anything.” She kept her hair short for functionality reasons, partly, and also because she’d cut it after her divorce just to try something new and found some comfort in keeping the same hairstyle.

Once or twice, she tried to grow it out again, but it just seemed impractical for how often she kept her hair up or had it pushed back with a headband during work, and even at home.

It made her feel rather flattered that you paid mind to something like her hair, since for the most part Wanda saw herself as blending in with the rest of Westview’s docile and placid background, which was to say that she didn’t think there wasn’t anything particularly interesting about herself.

To have a fresh pair of eyes focus on her so much made sparks flutter about in her body.

Her polite smile wavered slightly as more perverse thoughts overcame her. She wondered what lay beyond your still gaze that was both polite as your eyes crinkled at the sides and slightly girlish as your face seemed to glow when you smiled.

Surely, no one suspected that she’d done all that she had to the thought of you — how wet the thought of you made her, the amount of times she moaned your name with her back arched or with her body sprawled across the cool sheets of her bed.

But she had done them all.

Could the same be said for you, beyond an externality that no one else would suspect such things about?

Wanda felt a wave of shame course through her — what was she doing, assuming such things about a college student, and projecting her own desires onto you?

But even that thrum of shame made her ache and she pressed her thighs together in her seat; she should’ve felt humiliated and ashamed for the thoughts she was having, but instead, she felt… thrilled, and in a way she hadn’t ever felt before.

Upon arriving at the festival, and finding a good parking spot in a closer area designated for employees due to Wanda owning the shop that had provided so many of the booths with their bouquets and flower arrangements, the two of you decided on getting lunch first.

Truthfully, Wanda had been so anxious about the upcoming day out with you that her nerves had been far too frenzied to allow her to stomach any food, or to feel any hunger to begin with. It was only until she passed a booth of fresh buttered corn that she’d realised she hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and that she was finally hungry.

Deciding on some deli sandwiches, you and Wanda took your food and drinks to a seating area beneath an oak tree at one of the parks.

For a Spring day, it was particularly warm — likely because there was hardly any breeze at all.

For the weather, Wanda was glad she was wearing a dress, and maybe she was just making it all up, but she could swear she’d seen your eyes running over her exposed legs, and even peeking down her dress.

Maybe you were just curious about what she was wearing, but still, Wanda couldn’t control the way she felt her heart thump at the prospect that you were checking her out.

The eyes of men had only ever made her feel preyed on, and whether she was anything less than mildly annoyed depended on whether she had enough patience to tolerate any of it.

Sometimes she thought it was strange for her to feel so abhorrent towards men when she’d been able to marry Vision. She hadn’t felt this impatient and bored around him, and not even when they’d first met.

She certainly wouldn’t call it abhorrent, but with how often women her age spoke about fantasies or fooling around with younger men or their handsome coworkers — even Agatha had a tendency to do this — it wasn’t uncommon for some to question her interest in remarrying or at the very least, finding a new partner.

All this she told you as you ate together, aside from how the train of thought started with her realising how aroused she felt at the thought that you were checking her out. She was interested in sharing much more about herself and learning that much more about you.

“Maybe you haven’t met the right guy yet,” you suggested helpfully. “A lot of people say the right one comes along when you’re not really looking.”

Seriously, though, for whatever reason, the idea of going through the motions of meeting a new man was a process Wanda felt herself dreading whenever she thought about it. She could imagine nothing worse than inviting a man into her home and introducing him to her children, him meeting her friends, being touched by a man, waking up next to one.

“I don’t think I’m looking for any guy right now,” Wanda replied, pushing a tomato that had partially slipped from her sandwich back in between the bread. She looked up and found you were looking at her, perhaps trying to interpret what she was saying.

While she had your rapt attention, she couldn’t help but suddenly ask, “Where did you meet your boyfriend?”

The question made you blush a little but you also laughed, as if what she was asking could be interpreted as irony.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you answered, replying politely for it had been a serious question albeit with the intention to probe into your love life.

Wanda tried not to show any expression at your answer, and instead tapped the tip of her shoe against the grass beneath her seat idly as if to pace herself. The thought that you might have a boyfriend was one of the ideas that Wanda let float around in her head to rein her mind back to chastity when it wandered off, and she felt herself take in a small breath when you said you didn’t have one.

“I presume it would be far too much to balance now that you’ve moved away and are now doing work in a new town,” Wanda said then finished the last bite of her sandwich.

You made a noise like agreement, but also as if you had more to say on the topic, and when Wanda looked at you, you seemed to be gauging whether to say more. You bit your tongue after taking too long to choose between asking if she herself was seeing anyone or saying that you weren’t interested in men at all.

‘I suppose that’s true,’ is all you ended up saying.

After lunch, you and Wanda decided to walk through the corn maze attraction because the both of you were interested in talking much more and moving your bodies without being distracted by the booths and festival games.

It was quite fun to go through the maze with you. It was really rare that Wanda got time to do fun things like this with someone other than the twins — not that she didn’t enjoy spending that time with them, but she herself felt a little more like a child spending this kind of time with you, which wasn’t a liberty she very often had the chance to experience.

A maze was the perfect thing to do with you, Wanda thought, for even taking the wrong turn meant spending more time with you as you walked back to the fork to try a different path, and neither of you were in a rush to finish, so it was more like a fun walk.

You also said that though the research position was interesting so far, it was a routine that didn’t allow for much enjoyment unless you went out of your way to do something new.

Wanda sympathised, saying that much of her new milestones in life had come about that way — marriage, having children, and starting her business with Agatha. After saying it, she realised how depressing it sounded and even felt a little embarrassed talking about such things with you. You were young after all, and here she was rambling about how all of her life was a comfortable endless routine as if she were Sisyphus.

“You must think I’m rather boring,” Wanda said, looking down at the mess of hay, flattened onto the grass from all the people who’d trekked through the maze. Her tone sounded almost apologetic to her ears though she didn’t think she was trying to apologise for anything in particular.

“What?” you said, shocked. “What do you mean? No, I don’t.”

She laughed a little at your shock, but couldn’t help but feel that your response was a little naive. Once you grew up some more and experienced more of the world and met far more interesting people, Wanda was sure she’d only be a memory you’d look back on with some kind of pity, thinking, ‘What a sweet woman she was — such a shame she lived in such a dull town. After all, I could only stand living there for so long until my research period was over.’

“Well, I’m always doing all the same things,” Wanda explained. “I’ll probably be doing it for much longer too until the twins grow up and go off to college. I love the shop but I think I’d rather move elsewhere once they don’t need me in town.”

There was silence and Wanda looked over to you as you both turned a corner, and you looked to be a little confused, or at least thinking.

“But,” you started, “how does that have anything to do with you being boring?”

“How does that not mean I’m boring?” Wanda replied though acutely aware of how strange she was sounding, arguing for self-deprecation. “I just mean there’s nothing particularly interesting that I do.”

Then she added, perhaps rambling out of a place of deep belief, “It’s different from you — you’re still young and pursuing your passions.”

The images of you and Dottie walking around the few times that Wanda had seen the two of you came to mind again. Even if there was a chance that you would be interested in women, and women that were older than you, Dottie seemed to be a better match for you. She was more talkative and though she was an elementary school teacher, she was still working in some form of schooling, which might interest you far more than flowers and single-motherhood, and she was younger than Wanda and, from the looks of it, seemed to have more free time to spend with you than she did. Plus, she hadn’t yet been married and didn’t have any children.

Wanda could’ve been way over her head in two respects, and suddenly she felt a little foolish for how she’d been thinking of you — all this build-up in her mind when she didn’t suit you at all to begin with.

“But I think you’re interesting,” you reasoned. “I don’t think I’ve ever really put a lot of thought into what you do work-wise. Or your daily schedule.”

Then after a moment, when Wanda didn’t respond immediately, you added hesitantly, “But is that… something you’d expect people to consider? Or is that something you consider, usually?”

Wanda felt a kind of whiplash from the jelly you’d turned her legs into and the shame she then immediately felt for how shallow she must’ve seemed to you. “N-No,” she stuttered, speaking right away to not seem idiotic and just hoping to find the actual words she wanted to say while she was rambling nonsensically.

Truthfully, you didn’t think Wanda was being shallow at all, or that she was being overly concerned with hers and other people’s professions. You were also aware of the age difference between you and her, and how preferences and paths of life differed between ages; you were embarrassed at first, thinking that maybe you sounded far too naive, like a child with no grasp of real life or what really mattered to someone busy and with their own lives like she had.

Often, you thought you were way over your head, crushing on and fantasising about an older woman with her own business and family, with her own priorities who was now settled down and likely too busy to think about any romantic partner.

Much less with a college girl.

And wasn’t Wanda’s ex-husband a lawyer?

College girls weren’t her type.

“No,” she started again, “I just thought… We’re different in that respect, so I thought it might have maybe… bored you.”

If Wanda hadn’t also been looking down at the ground, listening to the muffled sounds of hay and grass beneath her shoes, she would’ve looked up and been able to see that you looked slightly flustered, for you felt that you were in a position of being confessed to.

It didn’t go over your head how Wanda seemed rather concerned about how you viewed her, and worried that you might think that she was boring. The very idea, whatever its context was, that she thought so often about you and your perspective of her made your knees feel a little mushy.

“But… You think I’m interesting?” Wanda then asked, raising her head and looking at you.

You had been so adamant to prove her wrong that you’d sort of just blurted it out. You thought you’d gone a little too far, but you looked over to Wanda and met her eyes.

It could’ve been the way the sun peeked from above the hay maze and cast its light upon Wanda’s face, but her eyes seemed particularly lit up, her expression looking even a bit hopeful as she asked you for confirmation.

“Um, yes, I do,” you confirmed with a smile. “I think you’re really nice and interesting and sometimes I see you out in the driveway with your twins and you seem like such a sweet family, and I’ve been curious about you since you said you owned a floral shop and brought me flowers.”

Well, now you were rambling.

Then you said something really stupid.

“Also, um… I think you’re a really pretty woman. I mean, ‘gorgeous’ is a better word. I hardly ever hear ‘pretty woman’ as a compliment, though I meant it to be true. It just sounds odd as a word combination.”

Wanda felt cheeks heating up and she was grateful that the two of you had finally found the end of the maze, for she felt like she needed to take a breath. But she couldn’t not respond to something like that right away. She swallowed and reached for your forearm and brushed her fingers against your skin to reassure you when you looked away, then dropped her hand.

She knew she should be saying something in response, especially now that she’d gotten your attention back by touching your arm, but she couldn’t come up with any words, just staring into your eyes with lips slightly parted but completely silent.

“Can we play one of the games?” you then offered, and Wanda blinked out of her stupor, remembering where the two of you were.

“A game?” she asked, still slightly disoriented.

You continued walking away from the maze exit and headed towards the festival, Wanda following beside you.

“Maybe I can win you a stuffed toy,” you suggested, looking around at the game booths.

Wanda smiled at the glint of determination in your eyes and stepped closer to you. “Maybe I’ll win you a toy first,” she challenged lightheartedly, looking for any excuse to interact with you more.

The rest of the time you moved between different games, and you and Wanda didn’t talk so much about things other than the games you were playing and some lighthearted memories that came up as you played.

Both of you were enjoying your time, but Wanda particularly, who’d never really done anything during such town events aside from help organise and sometimes take the twins out for them.

Her cheeks were sore from smiling and laughing by the time you were the one to win a prize first.

You handed her a stuffed blue jellyfish, with thin curly tentacles and a soft round body, spotted with white and pale blue.

“It’s so cute,” Wanda said with a tiny smile, squishing the soft body of the jellyfish gently and running her eyes over it in detail as the two of you walked to her car.

She insisted, “I was really close to getting you the giraffe… It was luck that you won first — not skill.”

“Maybe I can win you the ability not to be a sore loser next time,” you poked.

Then as she raised her head, seeing her car come into closer view, it dawned on her that she’d be dropping you off at home and your time together would be over, but she wasn’t quite ready to end the day.

She stopped at the driver’s side and spoke to you over the roof of the car, “Do you want to take a look inside the shop? Maybe I can help you put together a bouquet, or any kind of decorative piece for your place.”

She added, to ensure she didn’t sound pushy, “Only if you want to and if you have time. I’m sure you had other things planned for the day.”

You beamed at the suggestion and nodded with a smile. “I’d love to see the shop,” you said enthusiastically.

“I’m excited to see more of where you are and what you get up to for so much of your day,” you confessed, your hands folded in between your thighs. “I remember when I visited, and it was gorgeous at the front of the store.”

Wanda thought it was so sweet how you thought her little shop was so fantastical. “It’s a bit more of a mess in the back and less presentation-worthy, but I’m also looking forward to showing you around,” she replied, looking over to you and feeling flustered at how genuinely happy you were.

The feeling that you were truly eager to spend more time with her made Wanda all but melt in her seat.

It was beginning to darken, a soft purple-pink tint coming over the sky as the sun began to set. It was still a little light outside, and the pink hue of the sun cast in a nice way against your skin.

Wanda was feeling nice thinking about the fact that you’d been out together for a while now, and that you’d be out for longer still.

“I don’t do this for just any old neighbour, you know,” Wanda teased, looking at you from the corner of her eye as she unlocked the front door.

“Just a few?” you joked back.

Without hesitation, Wanda replied and looked over at you with a little grin, “Just you.”

She didn’t seem to think very much of what she said, though it struck you as rather flirtatious and made you feel like a special figure in her life, since she walked ahead right after saying it, leaving you to follow behind after breaking from your momentary stupor.

It felt so peaceful to be at the shop in the evening with you, telling you about things like how to store freshly cut flowers and how she kept them preserved upon shipments and how they did deliveries.

Wanda had indeed been interested in flowers and plants and owning a floral shop when she first opened it with Agatha, but much of the passion had turned into businesslike concern, and oftentimes Wanda didn’t have much time to take a step back and enjoy what she was doing.

But your fresh pair of eyes and genuine curiosity, asking her questions like how she knew she wanted to open a shop and how long she’d known Agatha for, made Wanda see everything like she had when she first opened the shop, and your curiosity and interest reminded her closely of the kind of passion she’d gotten distracted from once she got used to Westview’s repetition.

Wanda kept viewing herself from the shoes of Agatha if she had also been in the shop somewhere, watching as she giggled at your playful jokes and blushed at your undivided attention, which didn’t necessarily have to be interpreted as flirtatious for Wanda to feel flustered by.

Sometimes all you had to do was look at her while Wanda wasn’t looking so when she turned to look at you, your eyes were on her rather than on whatever she was trying to show you.

She kept thinking of Agatha especially because Wanda wondered whether she was making all of it up, and if all of it truly was platonic, and she wondered what her closest friend would say about all of this.

But the more Wanda felt herself stuttering around you or making some excuse to stand close to you or brush against you, she could no longer trust even her interpretations of what a third-party might say about things.

But the most delusional of it all, Wanda thought, was that she kept thinking of the image of you with Dottie walking down the shopping district during the times where Wanda was too busy to spend time with you and talk with you as much as she wanted.

She kept recalling the feeling of how tired she’d been coming out of work, the sun just about to start setting, and looking forward to getting home after picking up the twins. She had been at a stoplight thinking of what to make for dinner when you passed in front her along the crosswalk, Dottie at your side as you spoke with each other.

She was always wearing something pretty, her taste in clothing professional and delicate as an elementary school teacher, her blonde hair always curled or put up.

From what she’d heard from the few times she attended the town meetings — not that Dottie was so infamous but rather because she was friends with some of the mothers who attended — Dottie was the daughter of old-money parents who owned acres of rural farmland a few hours away from New Jersey.

Dottie was everything Wanda wasn’t.

Were you doing things like this with her too?

Were you only being polite?

While the two of you were putting together a little vase of different coloured roses together for your living room, Wanda quietly spoke up. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…” she started quietly, kind of hoping you might suddenly change the topic, leaving the question forgotten.

But instead you looked up from trimming a stem of a white rose, your curiosity piqued as you anticipated her question.

Wanda felt your eyes on her and she kept her hands busy carefully removing the thorns of the roses as she continued. “Not to sound… strange…” she said, trying her best to keep her voice steady and unsuspecting. “But a few weeks ago I saw you with Dottie, and I was just curious about how you knew her.”

She took a risk and looked up from the flower she was holding.

“She was Tommy and Billy’s teacher once, and they still go to that elementary school, so I sometimes see her around when I drop them off and pick them up,” she added, to sound like she was asking for a practical reason.

“Oh,” you said, sounding a little surprised to hear her name brought up. “She’s a friend of the professor I’m doing research with. I… can’t really remember how they know each other. I think it might be through Dottie’s parents.”

A wave of cool relief washed over Wanda and she looked back down to the roses and started dethorning the other one to keep her face down in case she accidentally looked a bit elated.

“I see,” she answered as nonchalantly as she could, though she could hear a waver of relief evident in the way she breathed out. “It’s a small town.” But Wanda still couldn’t help but press on a little, feeling not yet fully satisfied by your answer.

“But… You don’t see her… often, do you?” she asked, looking up again just to see your expression, and hoping you didn’t seem suspicious about why she was asking.

You shook your head, just focused on trimming the stems the right length and carefully placing them in a pleasing way amongst each other in the vase Wanda provided. “No, not often at all,” you said. “Usually I see her when we’re meeting up together to have coffee with my professor.”

“So it’s a professional relationship?”

To that, you finally looked up from the flowers in your hands and looked over at Wanda, who immediately internally cursed herself for not watching her mouth; she’d gone a little too far, just asking you whatever came to mind.

“I don’t even know if it would be considered professional, per se,” you answered, your hands lowering a little as you focused on giving an answer. “She doesn’t have anything to do with my research. I think it’s just circumstantial — that’s a good way to describe it.”

Wanda swallowed and looked back down to the roses, immediately ready to drop the subject and move onto something else after realising just how overly curious she’d been sounding.

Suddenly you were feeling a little awkward that Wanda had been talking about professional relationships and networking and all. All of that felt like a different world, and there was still a lot that Wanda considered in life that you didn’t.

You didn’t even think you had professional relationships, really, aside from your professor.

It felt like every time she brought up something you didn’t understand, the difference in age between the two of you became all the more evident, and you felt yourself becoming more and more childish and inexperienced in her eyes.

“Um, by the way… Ms Maximoff, I wanted to say that I felt kind of nervous to ask you to go out this weekend,” you confessed, and from the corner of your eye you saw Wanda raise her head and look at you. “I thought it might’ve been… I don’t know, like, a little stupid, even.”

“What?” she asked, surprised. She set her rose down and turned her body a little to look at you. The tone of her voice made you raise your head and meet her eyes. “Stupid? Why?”

You weren’t exactly sure what you had hoped to accomplish by confessing that, but you almost just felt like apologising somewhat for doing something stupid or childish before Wanda could realise it for herself.

Maybe you’d seem a little less naive if you just admitted to it right away, because honestly, you really did think you had been sounding a little stupid to ask her out for the festival, and often wondered if she only ever said yes to you out of pity because of how young you were.

Sometimes when she apologised for seeming standoffish or distant, you couldn’t help but feel that she was just trying to tend to a child’s tantrum.

But her response wasn’t as you initially thought it would be, and she seemed truly shocked at your confession, so you felt a little flustered and you now felt that you had been overdramatic.

“I-I just mean… Well…”

As you stuttered for a response, you realised you had no excuse to make, and honestly, Wanda had only ever been kind to you, so you had no reason to try and lie. So you thought to tell the truth.

“It sometimes feels like I don’t really have a grasp on your life, and like you may just be too busy or disinterested to do stuff like go out to a festival to get driven to work or…”

You trailed off to find the rest of your words, and you saw Wanda continuing to watch your face from the corner of your eye. One of her arms was resting on the counter beside her, her hands fidgeting with each other’s fingertips in front of her stomach.

“I think maybe I didn’t really consider that you might feel more comfortable not knowing your neighbours so much, and that even though it might be true you don’t mind when I do you favours or ask to do things in our freetime, I know that you’re also busy and preoccupied with things and… Just more comfortable with how things had been.”

Well… Dottie certainly didn’t get any of this kind of confession from you.

Wanda took a tiny step forward. She knew what you were trying to get at; there was an age difference between the two of you and sometimes the difference casted doubt on whether you were both thinking the same thing, always wondering how you were perceived by the other.

“I know how you feel,” she reassured, reaching out to brush her hand against your arm against the better half of her mind telling herself it was a bad idea to move closer to you. She fidgeted with her fingers again and took a little breath, wanting to be open and honest like you just had been.

She confessed, “I think that sometimes I might be projecting myself onto you.”

The words shocked you and you looked up and met her eyes, surprised to see her looking a little nervous as she spoke. You didn’t think anything about your relationship with Wanda had the power to make her nervous; she always just seemed like she had everything so well-structured.

She owned a business with a close friend and was a single mother of two young boys and lived in a nice house. She was beautiful and kind, and the idea that she might be nervous in any sense while interacting with you surprised you greatly.

“Sometimes I can’t exactly tell if I’m… understanding things correctly…” she added, swallowing hard. The momentary silence between responses thrummed against her eardrums, and the light from the ceiling became strangely brighter and looked as light often did when she was down with a terrible flu.

The implication was heavy, and she was worried about how you would take it. She tried to immediately relax herself by thinking that you’d only pick up on what she was implying if you yourself had been thinking similar things, but there was always a chance that you’d understand what she was saying and not feel the same way.

She could hardly bear the thought of confessing unreciprocated, for she foresaw absolutely no way to come back from that kind of rejection… She would look like such a fool, and she wouldn’t know how to handle the kinds of things she did and felt because of you.

The things she felt for you had been different from anything before, and if you rejected her, there was no way for her to deal with this new kind of awakening, and she was certain there’d be no other chance to be attracted to someone in the way she was with you.

“I think maybe I’m in over my head, Ms Maximoff…” you said quietly.

Suddenly Wanda was overcome with the possibility of what you were also implying, and the very possibility that you meant what she thought was overcoming the fear of being rejected or being wrong.

All she’d been doing was fantasising and mulling over possibilities and uncertainties about how she was feeling and how you might be feeling, and now the possibility that you might feel the same way, that she wasn’t just making it all up the whole time, seemed more real and tangible than it ever had been before.

She knew she was thinking irrationally.

There were better ways to do this.

But she could only really think of doing one thing.

She placed her hand atop the counter at the midway point between the both of you and she stepped forward, tipping her head to the side ever so slightly as she moved closer. Her breath felt warm against her own lips as her exhales reached your upper lip, and your eyes looked lidded and your face slightly flushed before she closed her eyes and met her soft lips with yours.

You immediately put your rose down and placed your hand on Wanda’s lower back, pulling her closer, and Wanda felt like she could collapse into your body at the gesture.

You really did want her. She hadn’t been making it up.

Though she’d been married before, this felt like the first time anyone truly reciprocated her feelings. Maybe that was because what feelings she had for Vision weren’t anything like the ones she had for you.

She was thirty-two and feeling this way for the first time; she felt like she’d really been missing out.

It didn’t take very long for the slow and hesitant kiss to grow heated, perhaps due to its confirmation of mutual attraction and interest. Your arm wrapped around Wanda’s waist and your other hand moved up the curve of her spine, up to where her sundress exposed her upper back, your fingers entangling themselves in her hair as they moved up her neck.

Wanda sighed into your mouth, listening to the way it merged with your tiny moans and exhales. She had her own arm wrapped around your waist too, but with her other hand caressing your cheek, her thumb brushing against your soft skin, encouraging you.

She felt her lower back press against the edge of the counter and she realised you were pressing your body flush against hers.

Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest, her body feeling warm all over.

In her sundress with her arms and upper back and chest exposed, every brush you had against her skin sent shockwaves up her spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake as a familiar ache began to form deep in Wanda’s lower stomach, causing her to roll her hips forward, knocking them gently against your own.

Maybe when her mind was less fogged up and she could think of a world past the soft caresses of your hands and your delicate moans, she would think about how right Agatha was about being with women.

You were so delicate and gentle, and not only because she thought that that was just the kind of person you were, but also because of the smooth slope of your shoulders and how your arms slotted perfectly beneath hers. Your face was smooth and free of stubble and your lips were so soft, your sweet moans were enough to make Wanda weak in the knees, and you smelled so nice.

And it did really feel like you were touching her as if she were an extension of yourself.

“Ms Maximoff…” you sighed, sounding desperate as your hand fell away from cradling the back of her head and sending a wave of throbbing arousal down between Wanda’s thighs. Her eyebrows furrowed together and she pulled you closer, grasping at the hem of your shirt as her fingers tightened around the fabric, feeling just as desperate.

Then suddenly you yelped and pulled away from her lips, your body unwrapping from Wanda’s. Wanda’s eyes darted across your face and she worried for a moment that she accidentally bit your lip.

“Y/N, a-are you okay? Did I hurt you?” she asked, panicked as she looked at you. Then she noticed that you had brought your hand up, surveying it under the light of the ceiling. “What happened?”

“U-Um, I accidentally put my finger down on a thorn,” you said, looking up at her sheepishly and showing her the curved thorn deep in your index finger.

Wanda stepped close again and wrapped her fingers around your wrist to get a better look at it. “Oh, dear… That’s quite deep…” she said, her voice low as she turned your finger around in the light to get a better look at it.

“Don’t worry — this happens quite often,” she reassured, looking over at you with a smile. The eye contact made you blush and you couldn’t help the way your eyes flickered down to her lips that now looked slightly swollen with how frantic your kiss had been.

The same flushed expression came over Wanda’s face but she looked back down to your finger and carefully laid it against her hand. “Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll take it out, but I want to make sure it doesn’t break off in your finger.”

Inching your hand closer to her eyes and into the light, her other hand came up and carefully pulled out the thorn, pulling it in the direction of its curve. A tiny bead of blood came from where it had pierced your skin.

“Just a moment. Keep your finger upright,” she said, letting go of your wrist slowly so as to not move it from its place midair. She then turned and bent over a little to rummage under the counter.

You couldn’t help the way your chest fluttered at the sight of her so focused on taking care of you.

She straightened again, now holding a bandaid, and laid the back of your hand against her fingers. With slightly furrowed eyebrows, she unwrapped the bandage and carefully secured it around your finger.

“There we go…” she said softly. “Not too tight?”

Heat rose to your cheeks when she looked back up to you again and you looked away with a shy smile and shook your head. “No, it’s just perfect.”

“Good.”

Then she threw the garbage out and brushed the thorns off of the countertop and into a nearby garbage can she lifted to the edge of the counter. She set it back down on the ground then turned back over to you nervously, brushing down the front of her dress.

She bit her bottom lip awkwardly, then quietly reasoned, “Maybe it was time we headed back home, anyway.”

You looked up from the floor and met her eyes with a little nod and a polite smile.

But neither of you moved from your spots, and Wanda felt a familiar impatience and gnawing urge pulsing inside her again.

Wanda was right in her observations of you — you were rather shy, and a submissive lover. You were nervous and hesitant, and after kissing you, she was sure you’d been with women before. That excited her, and she heard her own soft trembling exhales through her parted lips as she observed the hesitant look in your eyes, anticipating her next move.

You were still nervous, Wanda could tell.

So young and hesitant and innocent and polite…

All she felt then and there was that she needed your hands on her, and Wanda stepped forward again, kissing you with immediate heated passion as her hands ran up to the sides of your face, caressing you gently.

Your hands came to her hips and you attempted to wrap your arms around her waist until Wanda stumbled forwards, pushing you into the back room where it was more spacious.

“Mmm, Y/N…” she sighed into your open mouth, pushing your lower back against one of the counters in the back room.

Your hands were on her hips, slowly rounding to her lower back, but it was still not enough. She took hold of your wrist and brought your hand to her breast, and you squeezed as if partial to the feeling of how soft her breast was in your hand, mindful of the way her body arched into yours, her body pressed against your hips.

She felt herself throbbing when your other hand found its way beneath her dress, groping her ass and even tucking two fingers past her underwear to feel the soft, pliable flesh beneath the fabric.

“Ms Maximoff, is this okay?” you asked, your words trembling for how you spoke them between heated kisses. The hesitant tone spoken with your soft voice juxtaposed the way you groped her ass, and Wanda felt like she was already practically nearing orgasm.

“That’s just fine, sweetheart,” she replied, her fingers snaking down your jawline to hold your head in place as she tipped her head to the side and deepened the kiss.

Your fingernails pressed into her ass and she gasped, her body tensing momentarily.

Your tongues briefly brushed against each other and at the sensation, Wanda couldn’t get enough. She ran the tip of her tongue over your teeth then delved past your lips.

Warm exhales and breathy sighs echoed between your open mouths, meshed together in the exchange of saliva as your thumb tugged down the neckline of Wanda’s dress along with her bra so you could thumb at her hardened nipple, your other hand taking another handful of her ass.

Wanda had never felt more sexually desired, your hands on her body making her feel that you were thoroughly exploring her out of deep interest and pulsing arousal.

It was no obligation or passive act.

It was desire and craving, and you wanted her.

Then she felt the urge to have her mouth on your cunt, to feel you pulsating around her tongue, to feel your warm, slick folds against her lips. She wanted to taste how wet she made you and how badly you wanted her, to swallow your cum and have your flavour spread across her tongue.

She’d never pleasured another woman before, but all she felt was hunger, so much of it that it was painful, and that desire surpassed any need for prior knowledge.

In a few moments your thighs were wrapped securely around her head, Wanda on her knees beneath you as she noisily ate you out. The intermingled noises of her moans and the sound of your soaking pussy made your heart race.

She was far messier and dominating than you’d initially imagined, and you could hardly catch your breath. Each moment you thought you’d caught up, she’d want more, grabbing at you, delving her tongue into your opening or rubbing her flattened tongue against your aching clit.

She gripped at your hips, pulling you down onto her face so desperately you worried you might hurt her.

She opened her eyes and you saw her meet your gaze behind the mess of her dirty blonde hair, and you reached down and carefully brushed strands of her hair away from her forehead, revealing green eyes darkened by carnal desire.

The way she stared at you sent chills up your spine, causing you to roll your hips forward and bump your clit against the tip of her nose. She looked wildly predatorial, her relentless tongue and hot breath paired with a melody of deep groans and light girlish moans almost animalistic.

Wanda saw your hand reach down, fingers twitching in hesitation, before she interlaced her fingers with yours and brought your hand to the back of her head. She felt very literally… hungry — she craved you.

You nudged her mouth against your cunt and Wanda mewled in pleasure, feeling caressed as if she were being pet. Her hair was smooth, and feeling it now, you found she truly had thick hair and it wasn’t just the way she styled it in the mornings.

There were a lot of things you were newly finding about Wanda, new ways of viewing and understanding her that would make her different from how you had understood her before.

You’d never be able to see her without knowing how she looked on her knees, eating your pussy in her shop in the early evening, never being able to unfeel how her hands were firm and confident as they rubbed your thighs and squeezed your hips. But her fingers were delicate and careful, likely from her profession handling flowers.

You knew her touch.

Wanda knew exactly when you came — she felt it first before she heard it with how your thighs were wrapped around her ears. She could feel you contract and begin to pulse against her tongue, felt the way your hips chased her mouth and how your hands grasped at her desperately. She knew you had reached your peak because it reminded her so much of herself, and she helped you through your orgasm and through its aftershocks as she had for herself during the times she had come to the thought of you.

She carefully licked around your cunt and your inner thighs, cleaning you up as she blindly felt for your pants and underwear before sliding it back up your thighs while you caught your breath above.

When she buttoned your pants you helped her stand up and you adjusted her dress for her. Wanda leaned flush against your body with a little smile, watching your face as you straightened her dress, feeling your gentle hands rub against her.

Then you met her eyes and wrapped your arms around her waist, returning a smile.

She leaned forward and kissed you chastly, just feeling your soft, warm lips against her own, one of your hands moving up her back and rubbing softly.

“Was I good…?” Wanda asked a little nervously as she pulled away and looked at you. The tip of her nose brushed against yours lightly.

You nodded.

“It felt amazing…” you answered honestly, your fingers making shapes against her lower back through her dress. “I think, also, that I’m really attracted to you.”

Wanda laughed, feeling her cheeks heat up, and she buried her face in your neck.

After a moment, she added shyly, “That was my first time.”

Shocked, you turned your head a little to look at her but Wanda kept her face hidden in the crook of your neck and in the curtain of your soft hair.

“I couldn’t tell,” you told her.

“Are you being sarcastic…?” Wanda asked, looking down to play with the ends of your hair. “I can’t see your face.”

“I’m not being sarcastic.”

Wanda blushed, uttering a small ‘Thank you’ before she raised her head, fidgeting with your shirt a little.

“Shall I drive you back home now…?” she asked, looking up hesitantly.

You swallowed, feeling an ache of disappointment and longing at the thought of ending the night without getting to talk with Wanda more or even make her feel good. But if that had been her first time, she’d already done quite a bit.

You didn’t want to push her further or pressure her, so you nodded once silently in spite of how badly you wanted to be able to touch her too.

During the drive back, Wanda felt a dull ache behind her exhilaration, forcing her to admit that she was still not entirely satisfied. She’d underestimated the significance behind how much she fantasised about you, and how much desire truly went behind how strongly and how often she thought of you.

She nervously tapped against the steering wheel with her index finger and she bit down on her bottom lip.

“Was that…” She swallowed and carefully picked out the right words as she saw you turn to look at her from the corner of her eye. “Were you looking for… just a one-time thing…?”

Wanda couldn’t stop herself from turning and looking at your expression when there was perhaps a millisecond’s worth of silence after her question.

You felt a weight drop in your stomach and your fingers pressed against the flower vase sitting in your lap.

How would you come off if Wanda had been looking for something casual and you told her you weren’t? You would look childish and naive and disrespectful of her busy life.

You considered lying or perhaps answering nonchalantly, but tonight was the first time she’d ever gone down on another woman, and you felt you owed her honesty.

And… after all, it was still Wanda. She wasn’t someone to be scared of.

As Wanda turned into the neighbourhood, you answered, “I want to be closer to you than that. I don’t think I would want something like that to be a one-time thing.”

Wanda took in a sharp inhale when her chest tightened and filled with adrenaline, and she squeezed her hands around her steering wheel. She pulled into her driveway and parked the car.

Worried about the silence that would come over the both of you if she turned the car off, Wanda kept the car running as she ran her hands down her thighs as she gathered her confidence to speak again.

She turned to you and felt her heart pounding against her chest, threatening to suffocate her, when you turned to meet her eyes.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked directly.

Wanda’s hands laid in fists atop her lap as she regarded you, her posture straight and her shoulders rising and falling in tiny rhythmic motions as she steadied her breathing. From the dim lighting of her driveway from the light above her garage, you could see her eyebrows very slightly furrowed and her eyes gleaming with a nervous vulnerability, her expression patient and waiting for your answer.

You nodded once.

You stuttered when you tried to speak, then tried a second time, uttering a tiny, “Yes, I’d like that.”

The motions of following behind Wanda as she walked up her porch and unlocked the front door were mechanical and you watched her from behind, wishing desperately to know what was running through her mind.

There was a soft warm light coming from the living room that grew slowly brighter when the front door was closed behind you and your eyes adjusted to the gentle lighting of her house. This was the first time you’d ever been inside.

You looked around at the decor and the evidence of Tommy and Billy’s presence that remained even when they were with their father — their shoes were put away on a rack, some of their schoolwork on the small table by the front door, and their jackets hung on the coat rack.

“Are you thirsty or hungry for anything?” Wanda asked, evidently a little nervous.

You saw her take a breath and hold it when you set the vase down on the table where she had placed her keys to hold her hand. “I want to be with you, Ms Maximoff,” you said sincerely.

She swallowed and squeezed your hand and gave a little nod.

“I want to be with you too,” she replied, a little smile coming onto her face when you seemed to respond positively to her answer. She led you upstairs and you walked up beside her for how nervous she still seemed, and so you wanted to be close with her rather than following behind.

Wanda closed the bedroom door behind her and with the bedroom curtains left open enough to have the room illuminated by the evening, none of you turned any other lights on. She turned around to face you once she came to her bed, and her hands nervously came to the waistband of your pants, fidgeting a little.

“Are you nervous…?” you asked her quietly, stepping closer so her hands were caught between your bodies.

She looked up and nodded silently.

Then she said, her voice small, “What if I’m not good at this?”

You ached at her evident insecurity and unfamiliarity around being so vulnerable.

Your hand reached up to brush her hair back and you kissed her temple and murmured, “Not good at what?”

“At… this — making you feel good and being close with you, and connecting with you. I’ve never felt…” Wanda’s breath trembled and she swallowed.

She took a little breath.

“I really like you, Y/N,” she explained, her gaze falling to your shoulder and your body pressed flush against hers. “I want to be good at this…”

“No,” you protested softly and pulled your head back to look at her. “That’s not really how it works, Ms Maximoff…”

She explored your soft gaze, curious about what you would say but also caught up in how kind and patient your eyes were.

“You don’t really know how to do these things,” you reassured softly, “you just feel it.”

Wanda has always known what to do with things, and if she didn’t, there was someone who did know. Her marriage was all about expectation and filling roles as parents and as spouses, and her life, more or less, was about living through a planned schedule, doing things in order to be good at them and doing them right.

Was it okay to mess up?

Was it okay for her to do something just because she wanted to? She’d never been well-acquainted with the feeling of wanting something for herself to begin with.

“Can you call me by my first name?’” Wanda asked.

You nodded and smiled at the humour of her request.

She smiled in return and blushed before stepping back and allowing her hands some room to begin taking your clothes off.

You laid Wanda onto her back once her dress slipped from her shoulders, revealing her smooth skin and the contours and curves of her body.

Wanda felt extraordinarily sensitive to your every touch, unable to take her eyes away from the way your hands moved across her skin; it wasn’t enough to just feel the way your palms glided across her sides, your thumbs pressing into the contours of her obliques as you kissed down to her belly button, then her thighs, her calves, and her ankles when you bent her legs slightly moving back up her body — she had to see it too.

“Can I take your bra off?” you asked, looking up at her.

Wanda nodded and guided your hands to her back where her bra strap was, her back arching from the bed to allow you some space. She felt a surge of nerves course through her stomach when you took her bra off.

It had been so long since she was intimate with anyone, and even longer since she was with someone she felt engaged with, but it was the first time she was with someone she was truly interested in and attracted to.

For the first time, with your eyes running over her naked body, Wanda felt insecure about herself in a way she hadn’t previously; she was much older than you, and she started thinking about the other girls you must’ve been with.

None of them had ever been married or had children, and Wanda suddenly felt a dread come over her, feeling that she and her body were less attractive because of her age and what she’d done that neither you nor your previous sexual partners had.

But in spite of her anxiety, what she worried about wasn’t indicative at all in the way you continued to kiss her and caress her.

Your lips wrapped around one of her nipples, your hand coming to massage her other breast, and Wanda’s head lolled to the side atop her pillow, overcome by the feeling of being ravished and spoiled.

Then you moved up and began kissing her neck, and if you bit her, you did it softly, taking just a little of her skin between your teeth and nipping softly. She laughed breathily when you tugged at her earlobe with your teeth.

She loved the feeling of your weight on her body — a physical, tangible reminder of your presence, symbolic of how she had surpassed the period of fantasy and yearning.

“Get on your back,” Wanda told you, running the tips of her fingers down the curve of your spine.

While you adjusted your position, Wanda sat up and leaned over the edge of the bed and rummaged somewhere you couldn’t see. She sat back up and laid beside you, a translucent purple dildo in her hand.

Heat immediately rose to your cheeks and you imagined Wanda rolling her hips into it, slowly slipping herself down, and moaning as she fucked the faux cock. You even dared to imagine she fantasised about you.

“Can I use this on you?” she asked, holding it up for you to survey the size.

The very sight of Wanda holding a dildo in her hand, asking you for your permission for her to fuck you with it, her green eyes curiously exploring your expression, her naked body pressed against yours so her breasts brushed against your upper arm…

You had to blink a few times to make sure you weren’t just dreaming it all up, napping on the couch of your place before heading out to the festival.

Wanda moved closer and kissed your cheek. “I can be gentle with you,” she reassured. “If that’s what you’re worried about…”

“I’m not worried.”

“Really?” she asked, teasing, lifting her head to meet your eyes. “You haven’t said yes yet.”

You immediately nodded, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Is that a yes?” Wanda pressed, feigning curiosity with furrowed eyebrows.

“Y-Yes,” you practically choked out, stunned at her sudden display of playfulness.

She leaned back to where she had reached down before and came back up with a bottle of lube. Placing the dildo between your hips, Wanda asked for you to lather it on, holding herself up beside you and kissing up your shoulder and neck as you pumped your hand around the faux cock.

“As much as you want,” she purred. “I want to make sure you feel comfortable.”

You shifted your positioning a little so Wanda could have a better range of motion. One of your legs was perched up and your legs were parted, and you were laying back against a pillow for just a little elevation.

“Tell me if it hurts or if I should slow down, okay?” Wanda asked, nudging the tip of her nose against your cheekbone softly. She was taken by the urge to take care of you, to keep her body as close to you as possible, to feel your bare flesh against her own.

She really did think you were so sweet and precious, and the urge to care for you came stronger than it ever had before.

She wanted to make you feel good.

“Is this feeling okay, Y/N?” she asked, her other hand rubbing up and down your upper arm.

Your eyes were shut, allowing you to fully take in the scent of Wanda’s laundry and her hair and her perfume. The soft sounds of her little moans and noises as she made careful efforts to enter and tease you sent chills up your spine and made you throb.

“Th-That feels really good, M–”

You corrected yourself: “Wanda.”

A little flutter resounded in your chest at the feeling of calling her by her first name — it felt so personal.

“That’s good, Y/N,” she cooed softly. “You’ve nearly taken half. It’s a big stretch, huh…?” You hesitated to nod; it was a big stretch, but it wasn’t too much, and you didn’t want Wanda to stop.

“But you’re a big girl, right…?” she asked, and you immediately opened your eyes at her wording and the soft coo of her voice.

“I- Yes, I… I am.”

You watched as Wanda took her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes running down your body as her wrist curled and twisted back and forth, each time slowly pressing further into you. Her forearm muscle flexed with each movement and you could hear her breaths begin to quicken.

“Can I confess something a little embarrassing…?” Wanda spoke after a few moments of intimate silence, and you looked up from her forearm to her face.

When you met her eyes with patient curiosity, she continued. “I’ve pleasured myself to the thought of you many times, but I’ve never used this,” she told you. “I suppose I couldn’t imagine you in its place. It feels far more fitting to hold it.”

Heat rose to your cheeks and your breath hitched.

Wanda’s eyebrows raised and you felt a slightly forceful thrust, causing you to whimper. “Did you like hearing about that? I pulled out just a little and you’ve made quite the mess around it…”

The way her eyes scrutinised you, the focus in her expression, made you feel like she was observing you in great detail, feeling that her interest was sincerely piqued as much as she was aroused.

Then, with one more thrust, you felt the coolness of Wanda’s fingers pressed against your warm folds, and you knew she was entirely in.

“Does that feel good, Y/N?” she asked, settling herself more comfortably beside you so she was sitting up, your head lying in the crook of her neck. Her arm was wrapped around your head with her elbow keeping her up, her hand stroking your head softly.

You felt like you were struggling to get words out with the size of Wanda’s cock inside of you, along with the gentle and tantalising way she entered and pulled out. She was practically cradling you against her as she maintained steady motion, and you felt as if you were being babied.

“Th-That feels really good…” you mumbled.

“Oh, I’m so glad, sweetheart…” She began petting the side of your head and you mewled.

You watched through hooded eyes Wanda’s focused expression as she continued her soft thrusts, the positioning of your bodies making the act look almost masturbatory with how your bodies laid together, meshed.

“I had a feeling this would be the pace you preferred, Y/N,” Wanda said, her voice a soft mumble, her voice now sounding raspy with how low she was speaking. “If I’m honest… I thought a lot about what kinds of things you might like… I always enjoyed thinking that you were a careful lover, and shy…”

Even though she spoke at a hushed volume, you could hear her soft laboured breaths from her stern efforts to keep her arm at a steady pace, and often you looked down to see her forearm muscles flex subtly beneath her smooth pale skin.

“I thought about that all the time,” she confessed, a little moan passing her lips as the recollection. “I thought about how… polite and delicate you were, and your sweet smile and how kind you were to me. I thought that must mean you were quite accommodating in the bedroom, but I just wasn’t able to allow my mind to wander that far, thinking about what you might be able to do for me. I just kept thinking about what you’d let me do, and that soft little blush on your cheeks…”

She looked up at you and met your eyes. Hers crinkled at the sides when she looked over your expression, and when she smiled, the faint hints of dimples on either side of her smile made your heart skip about a dozen beats.

“The kind of blush you have right now…” she whispered.

“I wish you could see how you look,” she added, and you could feel her speeding her thrusts up, a new desperation in her efforts as you felt her move closer to you. Her hips knocked against the side of your thigh and her hardened nipples grazed against your upper arm.

Her breathing became laboured, and you felt yourself in a trance just looking into Wanda’s eyes, feeling pressure steadily build between your thighs she quickened her pace.

It was almost a little embarrassing hearing how wet you were, listening to how you stretched open each time Wanda thrusted her cock into you, and how you sounded when she pulled out, your tiny moans and whimpers building, seemingly encouraging Wanda to speed up.

“You look so cute, looking up at me, just waiting on what I’ll do or what I’ll say,” she said. “Do you feel cared for, baby…?”

Slender fingers brushed your hair out of your face.

“Y-Yes, I-”

Wanda interrupted you — not that you would’ve had anything very substantial to say anyways with how you started to speak and stutter without really knowing what you were going to say. “I knew it was wrong, fantasising about someone so young… But I couldn’t help it…”

She moaned softly and you could see her rub her thighs together just below your eye line.

Your eyes were beginning to flutter shut, for you were feeling the pressure in your lower stomach begin to coil, and you felt yourself tightening around the faux cock, suddenly sensitive to every noise and brush of Wanda’s hair against your skin.

Her arm unwrapped from around your head and Wanda suddenly leaned her head down and wrapped her lips around one of your nipples, causing you to moan out at the feeling of her warm tongue flicking over you, her teeth gently nipping at you before switching to the other.

“You’re doing such a good job, honey,” she reassured, trailing her kisses up to your neck and beginning to run her warm tongue up your skin. “So close, aren’t you?”

You nodded, trying to respond with intelligible words but only getting so far as a little whimper of affirmation.

From beyond distracted hooded eyes, your eyes flickered between Wanda’s fafe and her soft breasts, still pressed warm against your upper arm.

“You’ve gotten so wet,” Wanda purred, biting at the corner of your jaw. “My fingers are slipping from around the base; I have to keep readjusting my grip. It doesn’t help that you’re so tight…”

“If I had a cock of my own, baby, I’d have you on your knees, bent over with your face in the pillows…” she mumbled against your ear. “You’d be so tight and warm around me… You don’t know how wet it makes me to think about fucking a young thing like you… Hearing your little sounds and your pleas…”

Your eyes squeezed shut and you reached out to take hold of her hip. “W-Wanda, I’m-”

She moved her other hand down and interlaced your fingers.

“Come for me, Y/N,” she cooed.

Wanda was entirely captivated seeing you come, feeling the resistance around her dildo as your walls squeezed around it, your body arching from the bed while you cried out squeezed her hand. You came on the very bed and sheets she had to the thought of you countless times before, but the way you came was different.

It was more delicate than hers — from what she could recall from her own self-perception — your moans fluttery and broken into tiny whimpers, your body combed over with tiny tremors and involuntary twitches.

"That's a good girl," she whispered against your temple as you came, her other hand squeezing and stroking your shoulder. "Just like that, honey..."

She was careful when she pulled out of you, and couldn’t help but bring the dildo up to her lips and clean some of your mess off of it with her lips and tongue. Then she set it down somewhere on the bed and moved down to be able to wrap her arms around you, bringing your head against her chest.

Her arm that wrapped around the underside of your head stroked the side of your temple while she kissed your forehead, her other arm wrapped around your torso, rubbing your side soothingly.

After a while of Wanda rubbing your hip and your stomach, your upper arm, and anywhere she could reach while kissing your face gently, you caught your breath and cuddled close to her.

“I really do like you, Y/N,” Wanda said after the moments of silence. She pulled away a little to be able to look at your face in its entirety, and she smiled down at you softly. “I think you’re very kind, and very sweet. It’s really been a long time since anyone thought or cared as much about me as you do.”

Then she added, a bit shamefully, “I know it just sounds selfish, but over the last while since you moved here, I’ve been thinking of you quite a bit. And I was always very nervous to pursue anything, or even allow myself to feel anything like this for you.”

You didn’t want to speak up and interrupt her, especially since she seemed a little nervous confessing her feelings.

“Not only was it my first time regarding someone of your age in the way that I had begun to, but I think there were just a lot of things I was used to that I had to try to unlearn, and find confidence in diverging from.”

Then she looked away from your eyes and began fiddling with her fingers. Sensing her nerves, you squeezed her hand softly and rubbed your thumb against the back of her hand. Though she didn’t look back at you, she acknowledged your gesture and squeezed back.

“And there was also my age…” she hesitantly mentioned. “I felt… insecure, and unsure of myself, being how old I am and not knowing what to do. I felt… late to everything I was feeling for the first time, and thought that everything I was feeling was some desperate fantasy.”

Hesitantly, she met your eyes again, and looked relieved when you were already looking at her.

“You have no idea how good and happy it makes me feel that you’re sincerely interested in me…” she told you, a tiny shy smile spreading on her face. “I’ve never felt this way before, even with Vision… and I feel really lucky to be able to be with you like this.”

A realisation suddenly came over you hearing Wanda’s confession — did she really think it was all luck? You had been so shy about everything that you had failed to tell Wanda much of how you felt and how you saw her, and it wasn’t even your first time with a woman.

“I mean… it wasn’t really luck,” you said, fidgeting a little with her fingers, which Wanda thought was really cute. “I did ask to drive you home and visit you and work and… asked to see you this weekend.”

“Oh. That’s right, isn’t it?”

She looked like she had a moment of deep pondering as she looked off to the side. Then she looked down at you again and smiled.

“I guess I just didn’t really allow myself to accept the possibility that you were doing it all because of that,” she admitted bashfully.

You let go of her hand and brushed your fingers against her hip, drawing nervous shapes against her soft skin. “Can I touch you too, Wanda?” you requested.

For a moment, she looked surprised that you would even offer; her lips parted and she blinked, before closing her mouth and nodding slightly.

“What will you do?” she asked, curious and sounding a little insecure in a way that you couldn’t entirely understand.

The two of you shifted positions and Wanda laid on her back, looking up at you with eyes that made your chest ache. She looked vulnerable and almost a little anxious.

Being intimate with women wasn’t the same as being intimate with men — Wanda figured this quickly. It wasn’t the same kind of mutual pleasure, but rather, rooted in a kind of selflessness, a deep and involved desire to please the other without receiving explicit pleasure of one’s own.

Sex with Vision and any of the scarce intimate encounters she’d had since her divorce all seemed rather mechanical — it wasn’t so much about desire and interest as it was about fulfilling a role and doing what you knew you were expected to.

Vision hardly ever went down on Wanda, and she was never quite interested in asking him to nor was she interested in connecting with him in that way.

It wasn’t that she held any bitterness or negative reservations about him that confined their sex to duty or seeing it as an impulse of nature, as in having sex as one would eat when one was hungry, or sleep when one was tired.

It was more so that their marriage was not the kind to be seen as based on passion or desire; that hadn’t been how Wanda had seen him when they first met nor how he had seen her.

The idea that anyone could desire her to begin with, but moreover that one could desire her selflessly, whose justification was solely self-determined desire, made her anxious and uncertain.

It was, paradoxically, a selfish form of selflessness, where Wanda had only ever known duty and expectation.

“What you did for me before,” you told her, now settled between her thighs, on your knees. “Is that okay?”

Wanda nodded, looking at you. She adjusted herself a little, but you settled her by placing your hands on either side of her outer thighs.

You firstly moved up her body, making Wanda think that for a moment you changed your mind about all of what you’d said, but instead you started softly kissing her, laying your body flush against hers as Wanda’s legs parted before squeezing her thighs around your hips.

Her arms came to wrap around your torso. She stretched her fingers out so she could feel more of your skin, feel the way your back arched and curved as you kissed her lips, then her cheeks and then her neck.

“You’re beautiful…” you muttered, making Wanda open her eyes and turn her head a little to look at the way you had your face buried in her neck, your hair sprawled out a mess across her chest.

“Your skin is so smooth, and you’re so warm when you hold me,” you said.

All Wanda could do was whisper a small, “I like holding you, Y/N.”

You slowly descended back down, your palms running down her sides as if to hold the shape of her body and the frame that made it up in your hands, caressing her.

You massaged her breast, making Wanda loll her head to the side and let out a soft moan, her own hand coming to the back of your head and tightening her grip when your lips wrapped around her nipple.

Your tongue was soft and teasing over her hardened bud, and you sucked with a gentle force that wasn’t hesitant, but careful, treating her delicately.

Her hand stroked the back of your hand with her fingers, gently massaging your scalp and readjusting her hand’s position often to keep combing through your hair.

Moving further down, you pressed kisses to her stomach, beneath her breasts, down to her belly button, watching Wanda’s expression intently as you looked up at her.

She looked beautiful with her eyes fluttered shut, lips parted as she sighed and made little noises of pleasure.

You hoped she felt taken care of.

Your fingers began tugging at the waistband of her underwear and you looked up to her, expecting Wanda to feel a little hesitant, but instead she breathed out telling you to take them off, even reaching down and tugging at them.

Wanda’s heart raced when she felt your breath brush briefly against her pussy. A shudder ghosted across her skin and up her spine when your tongue flattened against her, pushing through her folds as your lips wrapped around her.

Her thighs squeezed around your head and she shut her eyes; the gentle curls and prods of your soft tongue set her on fire, and the way you rubbed at her thighs, squeezing gently, made goosebumps run up her skin.

She really was quite sensitive, for you could tell exactly how her body would react each time you dragged your tongue up her cunt, pressed against her clit, or secured your lips a little tighter around her.

You were gentle and intentional with how you ate her out, and Wanda could tell obviously that you certainly weren’t as inexperienced as she was.

When opened her eyes and looked down, she met your gaze and immediately felt that you were too far away, and she quickly came to prefer not to come without you much closer to her.

She loosened the grip of her thighs and reached down, her hand coming to the side of your head.

“I want you up here,” she said.

You couldn’t exactly hear what she said, but you could tell she wanted you to stop, so you lifted your head and Wanda guided you back up her body.

Quietly, you asked, “Are you okay?”

“I want you with me,” Wanda told you, wrapping an arm around your torso and pulling you close so your chest was flush against hers. Her other hand found your wrist and she led it down between her thighs.

You felt that you previously didn’t understand Wanda the way that you now did after being intimate with her. She was sensitive and a bit shy, and you hadn’t expected her to be so loving and attentive when it was your turn before.

There were things like the way she squeezed her arm around your torso when your fingers entered her, sighed into your chest, her head tucked under the crook of your neck, and took every opportunity to keep her body pressed against yours, that made you begin to reshape how you saw her.

You liked to hold her, to kiss the top of her head. You liked how she kept pulling you against her.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

She nodded quickly.

“Am I going too fast?”

Wanda shook her head.

She felt warm and tight around your fingers, and you were beginning to feel a sort of intimacy feeling the way she squeezed around you, and how she fluttered subtly when she moaned and arched her back to adjust herself.

“Say you want me, Y/N…” she whispered softly.

You lowered yourself to kiss her temple. “I want you, Wanda,” you said. ”You feel so good around my fingers. You’re so wet.”

She whimpered, eyes squeezing shut again as she lolled her head to the side to lay against your chest.

“You feel so warm,” you told her, lips brushing against her forehead. Her hand squeezed at your side. “I think you’re so pretty, and sensitive, and I want to take care of you. I want to make you feel good. I really… want to be with you.”

The words nearly made Wanda want to cry, and she lifted her head, meeting your lips in a gentle kiss. She’d never felt so much connection and longing for another person before.

It frightened her, at the back of her mind, feeling the way she began to cling at you. It was only you who she’d felt all this for, and she wasn’t sure what she’d do if suddenly none of this worked out. She felt an overwhelming sense of passion, felt it as it filled her chest and forced her to take big breaths to soothe the feeling.

You sped up, mostly curious to hear how wet she was, and Wanda yelped a little, her back arching and pressing her stomach against yours. Her knee bent and she parted her legs further.

You ran your eyes across her naked body, the way she was spread beneath you and clinging onto you, listened to her deep groans and little yelps and whimpers, watched her breasts rise and fall.

When Wanda came she was much quieter than you were. She hugged herself close and cried out into the crook of your neck, her sweet-smelling hair filling your nose. Her other hand grasped at your shoulder, and you paid close attention to how she pulsed around your fingers.

Suddenly her hand came down to wrap around your wrist, and she kept your fingers in place while her body shuddered with the aftermath of her orgasm.

Keeping your fingers deep inside of her and moving them not even a little let you feel her every movement while Wanda’s body slowly relaxed. She wanted to keep feeling you inside of her, just to feel that intimacy for a few moments more.

Then she nudged your hand away on account of how tired she was to speak, and you carefully pulled your fingers out of her.

As you looked at her beneath you and listened to her tired sighs and pants, you thought about how you’d seen Wanda as a woman on a platform for much of your time with her. Though you liked her and were attracted to her, you thought you’d always seen her and felt a little intimidated; she felt far away and greater, bigger, than your own life.

But now she seemed sensitive and delicate, panting, her chest rising and falling, her body coated with a sheen of sweat, her closed eyes fluttering gently. She looked incredibly vulnerable, and in this state it was far easier for you to tell that it truly had been her first time with a woman, and with anyone she felt very interested in or close to in a while.

You thought of her in more detail, your hand rubbing against her lower stomach, her own hand wrapped loosely around your bicep, her arm other around your waist.

Wanda had been married and divorced before, she had children and a business and years of her experienced life that you hadn’t yet lived. It still remained true that there were things you didn’t quite yet know about her, and things that would always indicate a difference in your ages and experience, and a general difference in how you lived your lives.

But in spite of all that, she had chosen to be here with you, and wanted you here with her.

At the moment her cheek was pressed against your chest, and she adjusted herself and guided you so you could wrap both your arms around her shoulders. She intertwined your legs with hers and tucked her head beneath your chin.

You wondered the kinds of things she must be thinking.

The truth was that you wouldn’t know unless you asked or she told you, but sometimes even that wouldn’t be able to capture exactly the way she might feel — when words and language couldn’t bridge the gap of Wanda being unable to word how she was experiencing a romance and an affection that she hadn’t ever before.

You thought a little about what Wanda said about her marriage before, and you wondered if you really made her feel seen and taken care of.

You felt her breathing in your arms, listened to her soft inhales and exhales, held her body, and were the only one she wanted to be with and share this time with.

“Can you sleep over, Y/N?” Wanda asked, lifting her head and meeting your eyes after adjusting her body to allow you to hold her more comfortably. She looked sleepy.

You laid onto your side fully so your head was on the same pillow as hers. “Do you want me to?” you asked.

She nodded. “Can you, please?”

“I’ll have to leave early in the morning since I live so far.”

A smile spread on her face and she nudged at your shoulder softly.

“I want to stay over,” you then told her seriously, kissing her forehead and eliciting a little sigh of pleasure from Wanda.

She said quietly, “I think I should get up and get ready for bed. I might still have a little makeup on.”

Before you could nod and ask if she had any clothes you could borrow, she sat up and looked at you. Her face was shadowed and her hair, now having lost the curl she had given it this afternoon, was a bit messy, and looked very soft.

You reached out to touch her hair, just to smooth some stray strands down, and make her face more visible. She tipped her face into your caresses, the back of your fingers brushing against her cheekbone.

While Wanda brushed her teeth and you were about to change into the pajamas she let you borrow, you suggested that you might shower together before bed. For most of the night there was minimal talking — not because you had nothing to talk about, but because both of you were far more occupied with just being together.

Wanda’s hair was nice to feel when you lathered shampoo into it, and her fingers were strong when she washed yours. Her lotion smelled like the tiny whiffs you sometimes got around her but were certain wasn’t her perfume — it was her lotion.

On the bathroom counter were her earrings she sometimes wore and her glasses, and her makeup and face wash and hairbrush.

You liked seeing everything, and you liked being able to touch her whenever you felt, feeling your arms around her waist and being able to kiss her face and her exposed shoulders.

“Do you think… you’ll regret doing this?” Wanda asked quietly after some moments of silence while you laid together, the tone of her voice trying to communicate a space for you to be open and truthful with her. “You can be honest. It’s okay.”

You immediately looked over to her. She was on her side, her hand tucked under her pillow as she looked at you. The blankets were pulled up to her chin, making her look tiny. “No, not at all,” you told her. “I really want to spend more time with you, and I really like you. I’m interested in you.”

Then you wiggled a little closer to her so your knees bumped against hers, making her laugh at how you moved yourself into her personal space.

She wiggled close too until your noses were all but touching, and you could tell Wanda was trying not to giggle.

“I want this,” you said. The serious tone of your voice sounded silly with how close you were to her face, and Wanda couldn’t hold herself back from laughing just a little.

“Okay,” Wanda replied with a determined little nod once she stopped laughing. She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the sides. “Good. So do I.”

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #elizabeth olsen

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helpallthenamesaretaken · 9 months ago

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percy, aged 15: ....annabeth.....is sitting.....right next to me 😧 illegal😳😳 but.... i like it🤭??

percy, aged 16: OHMYGOD 😱😱 ANNABETH WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM 🤯 ????😨 MOM PICK ME UP I SMELL SCANDALOUS😳😳 IM NOT EVEN LOOKING GOOD EITHER😭😭😭 lord forgive ME😭........yeah im having fun 😁

percy, aged 17: *sound of lock breaking at 3am*.......hey girlfriend✌️ yeah no worries come in 🥱 next time, knock maybe? ill open the window for you myself, just dont wake me up....yep ly👍.......k this is slightly annoying by now but i still love it 🥰

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timmydraker · 23 days ago

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Tim calls a family meeting and everyone is assuming he’s got a big case he needs help with, which is alarming for someone who refuses to admit that some cases are beyond him.

So, everyone shows up at the cave only to be ordered upstairs by Alfred. For those who only showed up to make fun of Tim for needing help, this is confusing because case work ain’t allowed upstairs.

All do them figure out quickly that this means it’s not to do with Gotham or Ref Robin, but the man behind the mask.

Bruce and Dick were there first and because Damian is always with one of them, so is he.

Steph picks up Barbara and Cass, with Duke already at home and Jason showing up at the same time as Kate and Lucius.

When they all get into the lounge room used for when people are over, just two doors down from the actual family room, they all find themselves chatting casually as they stave off their own worries or confusion. Some of them try find out if anyone knows what’s going on, but when Alfred and Barbara reveal they have no idea, they give up and make a few guesses but no more.

When Tim finally comes in after Alfred received him, he looks tired.

It’s not usual for Tim to get distracted with work and not sleep for a while, but he will conk out for hours when he decides to and wake up alright.

The bags under his eyes, the redness within them, and the way he looks close to tucking himself into a ball…

Bruce is immediately leaning forward, opening his mouth to make sure his son is okay but Tim just raised a hand to silence him. “Just… just let me speak, okay? I need to do it now or I’m not going to be able to.”

Everyone gives him a nod or look of understanding, making him twitch a smile before inhaling deeply and psyching himself up.

“I have cancer.”

…

Nobody speaks as Tim exhales shakily.

Everyone is staring wide eyed at the young man before them, who just reached the legal drinking age, and trying to asses his physical form for an understanding of what he just said. They’re all trying to gain X-ray vision to see exactly what is hurting him all while trying to convince themselves they heard him wrong.

Tim closes his eyes and speaks automatically, leaning into facts like he always does when he’s freaking out, “I noticed I was getting by more tired and fatigued around last year. My doctor said I have a low white cell count but he wasn’t alarmed as it was still in the normal range. But a few months ago I started to note that bruises were taking far too long to heal and I was getting a lot of pain around my joints and bones.”

He inhaled again, shakier than before at the same time that Alfred sits himself down with a hand over his mouth.

“It’s stage 2 and because of my lack of a spleen it’s going to be a harder process for treatment but fortunately I own a medical company so there’s that at least.” He makes a sort of joking smile that falters immediately, falling into a pulled back frown that comes with someone whose about to sob as he adds, “But it’s also aggressive so I-I don’t know how-how to-fuck-“

Dick and Cass are immediately moving off the couches they are on and catch him as he finally crumbles into himself.

Bruce is next to follow, the stoic man openly crying for the first time in years.

Jason and Damian are in shock, both frozen in place as dread takes over their minds.

Steph is looking out the window, as if staring at some kind of his or deity and demanding an expiration as to why they have to hurt her loved ones so badly. She’s crying, but it’s silent which is all the more harrowing.

Lucius places a hand on Alfred’s shoulder to comfort the elder even as he himself itches to go comfort the young boy who helped him run the company when he was at his worst.

Kate leaves the room to go call Bette, needing her mentor because this is just something she can’t handle.

Duke is sobbing into his hands as he leans into Barbara’s lap. Barbara who is clinging to him like a lifeline as she feels her world shift once again, feeling so angry and confused at how one of them could be threatened like this. Of all the ways they could go out, was it really going to be cancer?

It was a harrowing experience for all of them to remember that they were human in more than just their flesh being able to bleed and be wounded, but for it to grow sick. For it to age and attack itself.

They were human at the end of the day and Tim…

In Metropolis, Clark Kent rushed into the bathroom at his work to throw up as he heard a conversation miles away.

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stars-obsession-pit · 6 months ago

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Damn it, not again

Danny Fenton is fucking tired of rich fruitloops trying to adopt him.

At first it was just Vlad Masters. But no, it couldn’t stop there.

He moved to Metropolis City for college, and some bald guy tried to approach him talking about how he was interested in his family’s tech and they could use it to defeat Superman and lead humanity into a new age.

Which, fuck no, creep.

So he transferred to a different college in Gotham. And of course Danny can never have nice things, so the resident billionaire there had to take interest in him too after the city’s vigilantes caught him phasing through his house’s window.

Well okay maybe that one was on him, he could have been more careful with his powers, but still.

So he moved again, this time to somewhere remote with as few billionaires as possible.

…Where he then promptly gets kidnapped by ninjas and wakes up in the cult-y basement of yet another fruitloop, this time one spouting off about immortality and Lazarus something-or-other.

Where else can he go at this point!? Space???

…Nah, knowing his luck that’d probably end up with an alien fruitloop trying to adopt him as a pet or something

Maybe the deep ocean would work?

#*merfolk fruitloop waves hello*#*danny screams*#danny phantom x dc crossover #dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dp x dc prompt #dc x dp prompt #dpxdc prompt #dcxdp prompt #crack prompt

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sunniques · 9 months ago

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— 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 !

➺ PAIRING: choi seungcheol x female reader

➺ GENRE: stepdad au, smut

➺ SUMMARY: as a spoiled brat, you’ve always been one to get what you want—even things that don’t belong to you.

➺ CW/TW: stepcest, infedilty, age gap, dub con, possessiveness, somnophilia, daddy kink, breeding kink, begging, pussy job, riding, squirting, unprotected sex, multiple creampies, overstimulation

➺ WC: 3k

NOTE: don’t like, don’t read.

The room is completely dark when you enter it. You can barely make out the familiar layout in the darkness, but that doesn’t stop you. With sly expertise, you navigate your way through the darkness until you find the large window at the opposite end of the room. You glance over at the bed for a moment before carefully opening the curtains and letting the moonlight into the room.

The moon is shining so brightly that it illuminates most of the room. Perfect. You look over your shoulder with a satisfied smirk. Your stepdad’s sleeping form looks ethereal in the moonlight. He’s shirtless, leaving his muscular form laid out for your greedy eyes to take in. The sheets are covering most of his lower half, but you can see his legs peeking through just a bit. You turn fully, licking your lips as you hope he’s decided to sleep naked. It wasn’t necessary, but it would help.

Like a preying feline, you inch toward the bed quietly until you’re standing at the edge. Seungcheol remains peacefully asleep, unaware that he’s been caught in your web of depraved desires. You bite your lip as excitement courses through your veins. Slowly and quietly, you slip out of your sleep shorts and your loose top. Only left in your tiny thong, you crawl on the large bed and carefully inch toward your sleeping stepfather.

You take a quick glance at his sleeping face before tossing the sheets off his body. To your luck, Seungcheol is completely naked. It’s hard to contain your excitement and lust when you see his dick. Your eyes glaze over and your mouth waters at the sight. His cock is thick and long, curving upward into his abdomen. It’s so big and pretty that you can’t hold back anymore. You crawl closer him and descend on his cock like a starved woman.

You lick a long stripe from the base of his cock all the way up to the bulbous tip. His musky taste has your pussy clenching around nothing. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you repeat the motions over and over until his cock starts to twitch and harden. Soon enough, his tip starts to leak with precum that you greedily lap up. You relish in the soft noises Seungcheol lets out as you circle your tongue around the leaking slit.

With a sly grin you pull back. Carefully, you slide off your underwear and toss it aside. You have a predatory smile on your face as you swing one leg over your stepdad’s strong body. A quiet moan tears from your throat when you sit down on his pulsing cock. You’re so wet that all your arousal drips onto his hardening cock. Biting your lip, you start to slide your slick cunt up and down his length. The delicious friction makes it impossible for you to contain your quiet moans.

Seungcheol’s hot cock feels too good against your pussy. Every ridge and vein dragging against your clit and slick lips is making you feel drunk with arousal. You watch with satisfaction as your stepdad’s thick eyebrows furrow. Low grunts tumble past his soft looking lips, and he looks so hot that you can’t believe you’ve waited so long to do this. If only your mom had gotten a promotion sooner. Now with her going on business trips more often, you would be able to have fun with her husband to your heart and pussy’s content.

You can feel just how much Seungcheol likes your lewd actions, and eventually you can’t handle any more foreplay. Lifting your hips up, you reach down and grab his cock. He’s so big that you can’t fully wrap your hand around him, and it just makes you all the more eager to have him inside you.

Somehow Seungcheol doesn’t wake up even when you tease his leaking tip against your creamy folds. You hiss quietly when the bulbous head goes past your folds. It’s painful at first, but you love every second of it. When you slide down on rest of his cock, you think you might cum from the stretch alone. You throw your head back, eyes rolling into your skull as you gasp out in pleasure.

No one has ever been so deep inside you. His cock is kissing your cervix, and it has your pussy clenching down on him so tightly that you think it might be a little hard to move. “Fuck.”

You lift your hips, and slowly ease yourself down again. Lustful whimpers and moans escape you as you slowly repeat your motions, feeling almost dizzy at the way his big cock is stretching you out. His dick feels so fucking good; hot and throbbing and aching to burst inside you.

“So fucking big.” You hiss, planting your hands on his torso. Tracing the ridge of his hard abs as you fuck yourself on his cock feels like absolute heaven, but you’re done indulging in your fantasy alone.

Throwing whatever scrap of inhibition you have left, you raise your lower body before roughly slamming your ass back down. The harsh movement makes you cry out in pleasure. You start to move eagerly, not holding back any of your movements. His cock hits deep inside you, stretching out your tight little hole with every bounce.

You can’t take your eyes off of Seungcheol’s face. Low groans slip out of his lips, and you can see his eyes twitching beneath his eyelids. You lick your lips and grin. He’s slowly starting to stir which makes you speed up your eager movements.

Seungcheol is slowly pulled out of his sleep by the feeling of immense pleasure. He feels the weight of someone on top of him and something hot and tight wrapped around his cock. Lewd squelching and lovely moans fill his ears as he slowly peels his eyes open. His vision is slightly blurry, but he can still make out the sight of a body that definitely doesn’t belong to his wife on top of him.

“What—?” His voice is groggy and comes out in a half-groan.

Seungcheol blinks slowly, suddenly very aware that his young stepdaughter is bouncing on his cock. The sight is so filthy and hot that his cock twitches and throbs inside you. It’s so wrong, but he’s too shocked to do anything. That, and he’s powerless to the way your tight cunt feels around him.

“Princess,” his voice is gruff, almost scolding in tone. “What are you doing?”

You moan and clench around him because even in this situation he still calls you by the pet name you love so much. Leaning back on your arms, you slow your bounces into gentle grinds to give Seungcheol a filthy show of your pussy being stretched open. You smirk when you see his eyes lock where you two are connected.

“Sorry, daddy.” You moan, not sounding sorry at all. “I couldn’t help myself—fuck. Your cock is just so big.”

Your bratty words really shouldn’t turn him on, but they do. It doesn’t help that you look so good while you use his cock like your own personal fucktoy. The way your pretty tits bounce is mesmerizing and the fucked out expression you’re wearing is enough to push him closer to his orgasm. Your moans are the filthiest he’s ever heard—so loud and impetuous. He feels sick for enjoying it all. The entire situation is so wrong, and yet he makes no move to get you off of him.

“Y/N.” He growls your name like you’ve imagined so many times.

You lean forward and grab his large hands. Slowly, you guide them up your body until they’re on your tits. His eyes are dark as he gazes up at you, and you give him an impish smile as you make him squeeze.

“Yes, daddy?” You purr, slowing your movements to provide the most minimal friction.

A thrill runs down your spine when he lets out a grunt of disapproval. You can tell he’s still fighting himself on giving into his desires, so you clench down on him again as you increase your pace. Just like you thought, the lustful action ignites something in him. His hands squeeze your tits on their own this time, pinching and tugging on your hard nipples before they trail down your body.

Seungcheol sits up, any qualms about what was happening pushed out of his mind. He couldn’t think about his wife or the fact that he had enabled your behavior by always indulging your bratty desires. All he could think about was your sweet little cunt.

“God, baby.” He groans as his hands go to rest on your ass. “You’re such a needy girl. Couldn’t even ask me properly for my cock. You just had to come in here and take it like a greedy little brat.”

His big hands deliver a harsh slap to your ass which make you cry out and jolt forward. Seungcheol captures one of your tits in his mouth, tongue gliding over your taut nipple with an eagerness he’d been holding back until now.

“Daddy!” You mewl out, pussy clenching hard around his throbbing cock.

Seungcheol hisses around your nipple and kneads your ass. He slowly starts to fuck up into you as he sucks and nips at your sensitive bud. His senses are completely invaded by you—your taste, your scent, your touch. He can feel you get wetter as he wildly flicks his tongue around your nipple, rolling and sucking on it as if it’s an addicting candy.

Your arms wrap around your stepdad’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer to your chest as you slide up and down his thick cock. You toss your head back with a loud moan when his hands squeeze your ass as he starts to guide you up and down his dick. His leaking tip hits a spot that makes you see stars, and it pushes you closer to your orgasm.

“Fuck!” You squeal. “I love riding your big cock, daddy!”

“Yeah?” He groans against your tit. Seungcheol’s wet mouth pops off your nipple, a string of saliva attached to his lips. His eyes are dark with arousal and need. “Love me stretching out your tight little pussy?”

“Yes, daddy, yes! Can’t get enough of your dick!”

Your juices are dripping down his heavy balls and make the sound of his skin slapping against yours entirely carnal. Every clap of his heavy balls on your ass jolts you and forces you to brace yourself on his strong chest. One of Seungcheol’s hand trails up your spine and cups the back of your head to pull you to his lips. His mouth devours yours in a lust-fuelled kiss.

Seungcheol swallows your squeal as him other hand moves between your legs. His thumb finds your puffy clot, rubbing practiced circles on the aching bud. You moan into each other’s mouths as your juices coat his unrelenting cock. All it takes is one particularly hard thrust for you to cum all over Seungcheol’s cock.

“Da-Daddy!” You cry out in ecstasy as your cream stains his throbbing cock.

Seungcheol moans along with you. His eyes roll to the back of his head at the feeling of your hot cunt tightening impossibly around him. It almost feels like you’re suffocating his cock, and he loves every second of it. He licks his lips as he fucks up into you, stimulating you through your orgasm. The sight of you cumming is something he’ll never forget. A carnal desire consumes him, and in that moment he realizes he never wants to stop seeing it.

“Cum inside me, daddy.” You whimper in his ear.

You feel Seungcheol’s cock twitch and throb inside you. Immediately, you can tell the idea turns him on as much as it does you. As always, you’re determined to get what you want. “Want it so bad, daddy. Please.”

Seungcheol starts to fuck up into you roughly, groaning when he hears your needy pleas. It’s rare for you to say the word please, and to hear you moan it out so wantonly because you want his cum is driving him insane. As usual, he’s going to give you what you want. That doesn’t mean he won’t take full advantage of your desperation, though.

“Bratty little girl wants her pussy stuffed?” He coos against your collarbone. “You want daddy to fuck you full of cum?”

God, you’ve never wanted anything more. And at this point, you aren’t above begging for it.

“Yes!” You pant, thighs trembling as you move your hips to meet his rough thrusts. “Cum in my pussy, daddy! Fill me up like the nasty slut I am!”

Your words and your fucked out face are enough to push Seungcheol over the edge. He spills his hot cum into you with a loud moan of your name. Lewd squelching mix in with your cries of pleasure, the musky smell of sex permeating the air as your stepfather fucks his cum deep inside your battered cunt.

“Fuck, just look at you.” Seungcheol groans as he keeps slamming his cock against your cervix. “Milking daddy’s cock like the greedy little brat that you are.”

But he doesn’t stop there.

Seungcheol is insatiable, and now that he’s gotten a taste of your tight little pussy, he’s going to indulge himself to his cock’s desire.

One of his strong arms wraps around you. Suddenly you’re flipped on your back. You let out a choked moan as his hands spread you apart and his cock spears into you again. His hips start to snap relentlessly. Seungcheol has never looked hotter than he does now, literally fucking you into the bed he shares with your mother.

His thrusts are deliberate and rough, but he doesn’t stop or slow down. You’re crying out from the overstimulation, and it somehow makes him more ravenous. Seungcheol loves watching you tremble on his cock. You’re already so addicted to him fucking you that you don’t think to ask him to stop. In fact, you plead for more like the demanding little freak that you are.

Is it wrong that his chest swells with affection when you do?

Your arms wrap around his muscular back, yanking him down for a messy kiss. Seungcheol’s aching cock throbs against your velvety walls when you mewl out a needy daddy against his lips. He coos sweetly, lowering his body until his balls touch the filthiness between your thighs. Your stepdad’s big cock is slamming into you to the hilt, and you can practically feel him in your guts.

“Feels so fucking good, daddy.” You whine as he rams his cock into your sweet spot.

Your entire body tenses, and your cunt sucks him deeper, hungry for more despite there being no room left. Squelching noises bounce off the walls as he splits you open. Seungcheol fucks you harder and deeper as if he’s determined to rearrange your insides. He grabs your hips and pulls you to meet his rough thrusts before reaching down to collect your cream that’s formed a ring around his base.

Seungcheol gives you a filthy smirk as he laps up the fluids he’s collected from his fingers. He groans at the taste, knowing he won’t let you leave this bed until he’s made you cum on his tongue. “You taste so fucking sweet when you’re full of me, princess.”

The sight is so nasty and erotic that the coil building in your stomach snaps. Your stepdad leans back, watching with aroused fascination as you squirt all over his cock and cover his lower abdomen in your release. Your whole body convulses as quiet mewls pour from your mouth. His thrusts have slowed into thorough grinds as sticky strings connect your most intimate parts.

“Fuck—Y/N!” Seungcheol groans as he pumps you with another hot load.

“Give me all your cum, daddy!” You cry out, hips moving on their own when you feel his seed spill into your welcoming cunt.

You allow him to move you as he pleases, dragging out your orgasm as it bleeds into another—you can barely breathe as he rubs your sore clit. Seungcheol fucks his cum into you, forcing you to take the previous loads and his fat cock. Your sweet cries of pleasure are music to his ears. He knows then that he can’t possibly let anyone hear the lovely little noises you make.

“This pretty little pussy belongs to me now.” Your stepfather’s possessive grunt has you clenching around his dick. “Gonna fuck you like this every day. Gonna fill this tight cunt with my cum until your belly is swollen with my baby.”

His cum keeps spurting along your sore walls, trying to find space as if there’s any left. You moan wantonly when you feel it seep out of you. Seungcheol moans along with you, loving the sight of his seed leaking down your ass and drip onto his heavy balls.

Seungcheol pulls back with a fucked out smile, sweat brimming at his hairline. His chest fills with pride at your dazed expression. Slowly, he keeps fucking his cum into you, desperate to knock you up how he promised. Wet noises seep into your foggy mind, playing dully in the background to your cum-filled thoughts. He’s successfully fucked you stupid, and you’ve never felt so good.

Your cunt is filled to the brim, his seed coating your hole from the inside out. Seungcheol doesn’t hide his lascivious smirk. The sight just might be his favorite thing—next to that dumb expression you have on your face of course. It only makes him want to do it all over again. Each grind sends little shocks throughout your body. Seungcheol groans gutturally when you lazily start to meet his thrusts.

“My bratty little princess.” Seungcheol coos adoringly as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek. “You’re sleeping with daddy tonight.”

The triumphant little smirk you give him is enough indication to let Seungcheol know that once again he’s fallen into his pretty little freak’s selfish trap.

#seungcheol x reader #seungcheol smut #svt smut #choi seungcheol smut #seventeen smut #svt x reader #svt x you #seungcheol x you

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joelscurls · 1 year ago

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best kept secret

pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 6.7k

summary: In an attempt to keep your relationship secret, Joel agrees to a blind date set up by his best friend / your father. You don't take it well.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, pre-outbreak, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is 36), secret relationship, angst, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, semi-public sex, car sex, creampie, some fluff; lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: so sorry it took me almost a month to post something new ffs - life got busy and my inspiration simultaneously disappeared. but we're back, baby! anyway, dbf!joel owns my ass, so here's my rendition of him. as always, ty to my baby @javisashtray for reading this over for me and helping me through the creative process <3

Joel’s bedroom window offers a perfect view of the sunrise; of shy, pink light creeping over treetops and the roof of your dad’s house across the street.

It’s gorgeous — breathtaking, even — maybe because you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve actually seen the crest of morning. You’re far more privy to late nights and sleeping in as long as you can push it, never been one to be up with the lark, so to speak.

You don’t mind the early wakeup call, though, not when it’s this: Joel’s head tucked between your thighs, his tongue rolling lazily over your clit, your eyes still adjusting to the light as he spreads you open for him.

He’s humming against you, his coarse beard tickling soft skin, thumbs dug into muscle to hold you in place as your back bows reflexively off the mattress. He looks so sweet like this, so eager to please, staring up at you with blown pupils.

“C’mon baby,” he purrs. “Just gimme one before you go.”

They’re the first words he’s said all morning, the first thought that’s necessitated utterance. His voice is hoarse and deep and drips honey-sweet at your core.

Even so, despite how badly you want to — because you always want Joel’s mouth on you — you’re not sure you can.

Because you need to get home before Denise next door leaves for her early shift. Before Susan a few houses down takes her dog out for a walk.

Before the neighborhood wakes and somebody sees you leaving Joel Miller’s house. Or worse, before your dad catches you slipping into the house in yesterday’s clothes, your car in the driveway still cold.

But with another experimental flick of Joel’s tongue, you forget all that, a content little sigh slipping past your parted lips, betraying you.

Just one, you tell yourself, and then you’ll head out.

“Fuck, okay — yeah,” you breathe, twisting your fingers into the roots of his curls.

With your permission, he buries his nose in your mound. Licks at you again — with more purpose, this time. One long, drawn out lap followed by another.

He’s so gentle with you, so careful, caressing your folds with his tongue like they’re made of paper. It’s a dizzying juxtaposition to the way he laid you down last night and fucked you, teeth scraping your neck and cock bruising your cervix.

You’re still sore, your walls tender where he stretched them, but your pussy is drooling nonetheless, surely making a mess of the bedsheets underneath you.

Because you’re insatiable when it comes to Joel.

For the past few weeks, since the first time you’d found yourself in his bed, you’ve craved him. Regardless of how sated he’s left you each and every time, you’ve needed more.

It’s dangerous and stupid and undeniably wrong, having a fling with your dad’s best-friend. But you’re finding it difficult to consider the morality of it all when just his tongue makes you come harder than any other man’s cock ever has.

That tongue, now dipping into your apex, drawing more slick out of you as his thumb finds your swollen clit — It’s overwhelming how good it feels, how good he is at this.

He’s bringing you to the edge languidly, savoring the taste of you, the feel of your silky flesh. It’s like he doesn’t want this to be over, needs to stretch the moment as far as it’ll go, milk every last second before you slip from his grasp.

But it’s going to end soon; it’s inevitable with the way he’s laving your pussy, the crushed velvet of his tongue gliding through your folds so wet and warm. Your orgasm is building, and you’re powerless to stave it off any longer.

“Joel,” you warn, his name a high-pitched whine.

“Shh, I know babygirl; it’s okay.”

Two of his fingers hook at your entrance and push in, pacifying you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The soothe of his voice floods your senses like nitrous; renders your body loose and your head foggy. You come apart with a string of shattered breaths, eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the duvet.

Joel talks you through it: that’s it, pretty girl; so good for me; always so good for me, and though he sounds so far away, his words are the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

The world comes back into view slowly. Air settles in your lungs. And you can’t help but laugh at how fucked-out you feel when you peer down at Joel, his gaze already locked on you, expectantly.

“Okay?” he asks, rubbing at your inner thigh.

“Yeah,” you exhale, corners of your lips pulling taut. “More than okay.”

He smiles back at you. Props himself up with hands planted either side of you on the mattress and hovers over your feeble form.

“Good,” he whispers, dipping his head down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your mouth. He licks into you, letting you taste yourself on him — a little sweet, a little bitter — and his lips are so soft that you nearly melt. “Did so good, angel.”

You want nothing more than to spend all day in this bed with him. Return the favor a few times over. Learn what he looks like in the afternoon sun against the backdrop of navy blue sheets. What he tastes like after his coffee rather than before.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit against his mouth and he frowns, taking one of your hands in his. He presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, one by one, his eyes never straying from yours.

“I don’t want you to either, darlin’. But you can come back tonight, yeah?”

Tonight. Hours away. A whole day between now and then. But it’ll have to do.

“Tonight,” you repeat. Solidify it.

You slink home just as the street lights dim.

The house is quiet when you enter, apart from the incessant ticking of the grandmother clock in the living room. It sets off a throbbing in your head, a dull pang right at the front of your skull that you massage with two fingers as you ascend the stairs.

You move cautiously up each step, wincing at every creak of old wood. It must take minutes to reach the second-floor landing, and then you’re tiptoeing past your father’s room, listening for signs of sleep behind the seal of his door. Sure enough, you catch it, a single, drawn-out snore, loud enough that you let your feet fall, shuffling the rest of the way to the bathroom across the hall.

You immediately crank the shower on, climbing in as soon as you see steam. Lathering your skin with citrus-scented body wash, the smell of sex washes off your body and down the drain.

The warm water soothes your sore muscles; bittersweet relief. You stand there until the stream grows icy, stepping out and toweling yourself off just as you hear the familiar blare of your dad’s alarm on the other side of the wall.

By the time you’ve dressed and made your way downstairs, he’s already in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with his back to you.

Sink empty, counters borderline sparkling, a coaster tucked under his warm mug — your father is a neat man. He does not take kindly to mess.

God forbid, anybody disrupt the sacred balance of his home; move something and forget to put it back, break something of his that should be kept intact.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he yawns. Turns to face you. “You were up early. Heard the shower going.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“Something on your mind?”

Heat blooms across your chest and up your neck. There’s no way he knows — you’ve been far too careful. Still, you’re on edge, and the question lodges itself between your ribs uncomfortably as you frantically search for an answer.

“Uh, n-no,” you stutter. “Just work stuff, I guess.”

He seems to buy it, reaching for the percolator and re-filling his mug with a sigh, “Just gotta give it time. You only just started. Plus, it’s your first job out of school. They don’t expect you to know it all right away.”

It’s good advice, if not misguided. You nod as if you’re absorbing it, taking it straight to heart. As if your mind isn’t preoccupied.

You grab a mug from the cabinet. Fill it with coffee and creamer. Perch yourself at the breakfast table and take a slow, steadying sip.

The caffeine has just about seeped into your bloodstream when-

-there’s a knock at the door.

Your dad shoots you a puzzled look, one which you immediately return. Who could that be, so early on a Wednesday morning?

And when he pushes open the door to reveal none other than Joel, you just about fall out of your chair. Your nails absentmindedly dig into the wood of the table in an attempt to brace yourself.

“Oh, buddy — hey! Come on in,” your dad says, patting him on the back as he steps over the threshold. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

You grasp the handle of your mug like a lifeline. For a fleeting moment, you worry the ceramic will shatter in your hands.

Joel is dressed — blue cotton t-shirt covering his broad back and the deep, red scratches you left there when you dug your nails into skin, your legs hiked over his hips and your face tucked into his chest.

The pair of boxers peeking over the waistband of his jeans are different from the ones you pulled off of him last night, the ones he shimmied back into before you slept cradled in his arms.

He’s a different Joel here, now — your father’s friend, your neighbor — not the man who breaks you down with his tongue or the one who calls you his good girl while you take his entire, throbbing length.

No, this Joel, standing in your kitchen in the presence of your father, has never betrayed him. Hasn’t tasted his friend’s daughter or felt the tight embrace of her wet, warm cunt around his cock. This Joel is reliable, honest, not one to do harm.

You do not desire this Joel, cannot. You must look at him with apathetic eyes. Must keep the boat of your longing at bay.

Easier said than done. It’s as if your desire for him is a feral beast, fed by his touch and left starving in its wake. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon, sweat beading at your collar as you not-so-subtly follow the subconscious flex of his hands, the bunching of fabric over his biceps.

His voice bounces off the backsplash, and your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug.

“Yeah, I uh — I went to make myself coffee and realized I was out. Was hopin’ you might have some to spare?”

He can’t be serious. He came over for coffee? He couldn’t get some on the road?

“I’m afraid she took the last of it,” your dad’s eyes point to you, and you ignore the burn of Joel’s gaze when his follow.

“Ahh,” he says. “‘ts okay. I’ll grab some on my way in.”

His fingers taptaptap on the edge of the countertop, bottom lip tucked between his teeth like there’s something else. Another reason he came here.

And then you spot it — your wallet, dark red leather, poking out the top of Joel’s back pocket.

You must’ve left it in his room before you hurried home. Somewhere amongst the mess of trinkets and trash on his dresser. You half-remember dropping it there last night as he’d kneeled in front of you and peppered kisses up the length of your leg.

Thankfully, your dad is oblivious as ever, giving Joel the perfect opportunity to inconspicuously slip you your wallet when he turns around and crosses the kitchen, placing his empty mug in the sink.

Joel sidesteps once, twice, extending his arm and snapping it back as soon as you have the wallet in your grasp.

Your father clears his throat. Spins to find Joel exactly where he was. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, wrestling a slice of bread out of the bag and dropping it into the toaster, “I gotta set you up with this co-worker of mine, Deb.”

Joel freezes. You watch as the color drains from his face and his large hand anxiously cards through dark curls. You’re pretty sure you freeze too, breath caught somewhere in your throat until your dad turns to you and you remember to exhale.

“You know Deb, right, honey?” he asks. You mentally flick through the rolodex of your dad’s coworkers.

There’s Leanne, tall redhead, hosted a potluck a few months back at which you tasted the worst mac & cheese you’ve ever had. And Barbara from accounting, who he got into a heated argument with over who makes the best BBQ in the city. You only remember her name because he hadn’t shut up about how wrong her opinion was for a full week.

This woman actually thinks the Smoke Shop has got better ribs than Lou’s. I said to her, Barbara, your taste buds must be absolutely torched.

But Deb? You don’t recall a Deb. Still, you’re pretty sure you hate her, just in hearing her name in this context.

You shake your head, no.

“Well, I guess you haven’t seen her in a while. She was there that day I brought you into the office.”

“When I was ten?” you retort.

“Yeah, I guess it was that long ago, huh?”

You shrug. He returns his attention to Joel. “Anyway, Deb – she’s around your age, just got divorced about a year back, and she’s a real nice woman. I think you two would really hit it off.”

“Is that so?” Joel replies. You swear his voice wavers. If your dad notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll like her Joel, I promise. I mean, when’s the last time you went out with a nice lady? Not since – what was her name — Jean? And if things were going well with her, I’d hope you’d tell your old friend.” The toaster pops, and he retrieves his slice of toast. Grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer.

“No, I ain’t seeing Jean,” Joel sighs. Flashes you an apologetic glance as your dad slathers his toast in artificial purple jam, blissfully unaware.

“Well, you gotta get back out there!”

Joel’s gaze rolls to the ceiling. “I don’t know – I’m just not real interested in datin’ right now.”

You exhale, then — a quiet declaration of relief that seems to go unnoticed — unperturbed even when your dad continues his pitch.

I’ve known this woman for years Joel, I’m telling you, the two of you’d be the perfect match; she’s a looker too, real pretty.

Ew. Tuning him out, you check the clock, find that you only have a few minutes before you need to get going. You stand from the table and make your way toward the sink with your now-empty coffee mug in hand.

Would I ever lead you astray? your dad is asking just as you brush past Joel. His hand, idle by his side, catches the fabric of your blouse and you have to fight to ignore the pinprick of electricity it ignites under your skin.

“No, I know,” Joel grumbles. “I trust your judgment ‘n all, ‘ts just-”

“Will you just give her a chance?”

“Jesus; fine.”

The mug slips from your grip, falls into the sink with a clang.

Your dad glares at you, expression softening only when you gesture to the still-intact ceramic lying on its side in the basin.

He’s quickly distracted, then, jotting a series of numbers down onto a scrap of notebook paper, the blue ink pressed in so hard that it’s beginning to bleed through.

“Atta boy,” he drawls, sliding it across the counter. Joel pinches it between two fingers, folds the paper without looking at it and stuffs it into his front pocket.

“Promise you’ll give her a call tonight? I may or may not have already talked you up, and I need to know you’re not gonna make me look bad here.”

Joel has to see you staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He must. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under already. But he’s refusing to meet your gaze, eyes glued to the cabinet directly in front of him as he nods. “Yeah, I’ll call her tonight,” he says, a small, unconvincing smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

He’s actually agreeing to this?

You need to get out of here before you say something rash.

The anger bubbles in you slowly, then all at once, threatening to boil over as you slip on your shoes and sling your bag over your shoulder.

Marching toward the door, you offer a half-hearted bye, not bothering to look back before you leave.

The office is already milling with people by the time you stroll in, ten minutes late.

The conversation between Joel and your dad is still running laps in your head as you sneak past your boss’s door.

It sticks there through the morning and well into the afternoon, your dad’s words an incessant earworm: I think you two would really hit it off.

The thing is — you can’t blame Joel for saying yes to the setup. Not really. Your situation is complicated, messy, bound to end badly.

Maybe he’d be happier with Deb.

They could take walks together, stroll through the grocery store or down the street hand-in-hand. Throw dinner parties and shamelessly gush about their relationship to their friends. All without fear of being caught doing something wrong.

Because that’s what this is, you and Joel — it’s wrong. Not like you weren’t already well aware of that. Leave it to some woman you’ve never met to rub it in.

The day passes infuriatingly slow.

The pile of emails in your inbox only grows larger by the time you’re due to clock out, stack of reports on your desk barely touched. You wince when your boss stops by your cubicle on her way out, eager for an update.

“Sorry, Linda; a couple of these were more time-consuming than I’d hoped,” you lie. But you can tell she doesn’t buy it, not one bit, her expression souring as you shuffle through papers.

“I need these done by the end of the week, no matter what.”

“Of course,” you mutter, face heating with embarrassment. “I’ll get them done and on your desk by Friday.”

“Thanks.” Her heels are already clacking on tile when you open your mouth to apologize again, your sorry lost to the ether.

You gather your things and scramble to your feet as soon as she’s out of view, not sticking around to watch your computer power down. By the time you get to your car, Joel’s number is already dialed on your phone.

He picks up after two rings.

“Darlin’ — are you okay?”

It’s admittedly uncharacteristic for you to call him so early. You usually wait until after dark, when you’ve both retreated to your respective bedrooms, away from listening ears.

But this can’t wait. It’s been eating at you all day, digging into your work. If you don’t talk to him about it, you’re going to end up unemployed. You don’t bother to ask if he’s still on the job site, around other people. “You’re going on this date.” It’s not a question. More of an accusation.

“Baby,” he sighs. You try your best to ignore his molasses drawl and the way it seeps into your chest.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

“How could I?” he groans. “There’s your dad, askin’ me if I’m seein’ someone, sayin’ he’s already told this lady about me – what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice comes out a whine. “Make something up. Tell him you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

He laughs, low and breathy on the other end. “Yeah, baby. Think he’d believe that one, f’sure.”

“Fuck,” you huff. “I just— I don’t-“

You want to tell him not to go. To cancel. Fake his own death. Do whatever it takes to get out of this. But you have no right, not really. The two of you aren’t dating. You don’t have any control over what he does or who he sees. And you don’t want that, no. You just want him to choose you.

“I don’t wanna go, darlin’. I really don’t. But if I do this, I think it’ll get him off my back for a while. He won’t have a reason to suspect that I’m foolin’ around with his daughter.”

Fooling around. His phrasing is a metaphorical punch in the gut.

It’s not exactly a lie. You haven’t put a label on this thing, whatever it is. It’s been purely physical: lips slotted to lips, tongues pressed together, swapped sweat and saliva. But hearing it reduced to two words, words with such a casual connotation — as if you haven’t been driven by overwhelming desire — makes your stomach churn.

Joel doesn’t seem to clock it when you go quiet, a cocktail of rage and sorrow sloshing around your insides. “It’s for the best,” he adds, a shot of hard, burning liquor.

“Yeah,” you say defeatedly. Choke back the pathetic tears that creep up your throat. “For the best.”

He ends the call with the excuse of bad cell reception. Promises to talk to you later. You’re not sure that you believe him.

The phrase fooling around curls up in your head, a wet dog, its fur dripping into the crevices of your rattled brain the entire drive home.

You dodge Joel’s calls for the remainder of the week.

There’s no use in talking to him when you have nothing to say, when you know any words you attempt will be overtaken by tears.

Even so, it doesn’t stop him from trying. His number lights up the screen of your phone at least twice a day.

He leaves voicemails that you do not listen to. You can’t. The last thing you need is his syruppy drawl in your ear. You’ll break; you know you will.

So instead, you delete them. Rid yourself of temptation.

But you still ache for him — a devastating truth. You lumber through the days, bones heavy with hurt. Find yourself kept up at night by thoughts of Joel and the infuriatingly soothing timbre of his voice, the intoxicating callous of his fingertips against your soft skin.

It’s a lonely thing, yearning for Joel Miller.

On Friday, your father beams at the dinner table. He’s grinning like a child as he stuffs a forkful of rice into his mouth.

“Joel and Deb’s date is tomorrow,” he says. “Think they’ll really hit it off, don’t you?”

You’re dumbfounded for a long moment — can’t believe that this is your life now: being asked about your thoughts on Joel and the ever-elusive Deb as a couple. When it takes too long for you to answer, your father’s fork stills pointedly on his plate, and you sputter.

“Oh! I mean, I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember Deb.” You can’t help your condescending tone. Your dad doesn’t seem to catch it anyway.

“Well,” he says, “I think they’ll be a match. Hoping so, anyway. The man has been such a hermit lately — maybe if he has a lady, he’ll get out more!”

“You sound real excited,” you grumble. Stab four peas on the prongs of your fork.

“It is exciting. I’ve never set anyone up before. And the best part is, the place they’re going to — the Tavern — it’s got rooms you can rent out for wedding receptions. Just imagine if down the line, they got mar-“

“Dad,” you stop him. You think you’ll be physically sick if you let him finish that sentence. “Sorry, I just — I’m really tired, all of a sudden. I think I’m going to head to bed early.”

It’s not a complete lie. You’re emotionally exhausted as a result of the past couple days. Sleep sounds like a much-needed, blissful escape right now.

Your dad doesn’t question you. He just nods. Swipes your plate from in front of you and brings it to the sink along with his.

Of course, you find it impossible to actually drift off that night. Tossing and turning, you battle the glaring urge to get up, slink into the home-office and look up directions to the Tavern.

Not that you’re planning to go there anytime soon — you’re just curious. That’s all.

Around midnight, you give up, pad down the hallway and into the room parallel yours. The computer dials up slowly, and you chew your bottom lip as you wait.

You snatch a piece of paper from the printer and a pen from the #1 Dad mug that sits next to the monitor. Click on the internet icon and type the words into the search bar.

This is definitely a bad idea. Maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

You jot the address down anyway.

Downtown Austin is buzzing with life.

Patrons spilling out of bars, tourists striding down the street in their brand new Stetsons – it almost distracts you from the task at hand.

At just past seven, you’d told your dad you were going out, meeting a friend for drinks. He’d been a bit taken aback, seeing as you’re not very social these days, but he’d seemed happy. Relieved.

That’s not what you’re doing, of course.

No – in reality, you’re turning into the parking lot attached to the Tavern. It’s packed to the brim with cars, but you still manage to find Joel’s truck, its license plate number burned into the back of your mind after countless mornings of absently reading it as you snuck past.

It’s idle and empty when you inch by, and even though you knew he’d be here, on this date, your heart still sinks. Because maybe a tiny part of you had hoped he’d stand Deb up.

You should leave. It was stupid to come here in the first place. What are you going to do — storm inside and demand that he leave with you?

You consider it for half a second, groaning when you realize how pitiful you are. Defeated, you swing your car into a spot at the back, facing the building, and shift it into park. You hug the steering wheel dejectedly.

From here, you have a straight-shot view of the restaurant’s entrance, a set of double doors at the side of the building. Groups spill out every so often, every pair that emerges causing your back to arch reflexively.

Joel and Deb are probably discussing their interests right now, bonding over a shared connection with your dad. You can vividly picture the smile likely plastered across his face — the same one you’ve elicited with sweet filth whispered in his ear.

And you’re here, sitting in your running car, watching the door. Your pulse thumps obnoxiously loud in your ears.

Minutes pass like molasses, slow and thick. You watch the clock on the car radio obsessively, betting with yourself on what time they’ll leave. After thirty minutes of nothing, you’re convinced that they’re going to close the place out.

But then the door opens again, and you straighten up, immediately met with the sight of Joel and Deb.

She’s talking animatedly, eyes widening every few words, blonde hair wafting around her narrow face. It’s undeniable that she’s stunning, even from far away; possesses the kind of beauty you see on magazine covers in line at the grocery store. The jealousy that pools in your gut burns like acetone in an open wound.

She takes his arm as they walk toward the parking lot, and he lets her, despite the rest of his body appearing strangely rigid.

You wonder if he’ll take her home. Lead her to his truck, help her up the step to the passenger seat and sneak a look at her ass under her dress before shutting the door. If they’ll leave her car in the lot for the night, come back to retrieve it in the morning once he’s helped her forget about her loser ex-husband; let the scent of her perfume seep into the bed sheets to cover up yours.

But he doesn’t lead her to his truck. You watch as they unexpectedly turn down a row of cars, disappearing from your view completely, his arm still locked with hers.

He could still kiss her. Press her against the car. Promise her that he’ll call — and he will, first thing tomorrow. He’s probably just being a real gentleman. Treating her like a woman he might want to marry someday.

Maybe he knows, after just one date, that she’s his soulmate. He’ll buy the ring in a couple weeks. They’ll be engaged in a month’s time, and he’ll say he just couldn’t wait any longer.

She’s the one thing I’ve been missing.

You stew in the agonizing unknown for what feels like hours before Joel materializes once again, backside illuminated by headlights as he strides toward his truck.

And then — he stops. You see the exact moment he notices your car in the parking lot, his eyebrows threading together and his hands splaying over his hips.

He’s staring directly through the windshield. At you.

Fuck.

He takes a few slow steps. Stops in front of the hood. Narrows his eyes and flexes his jaw.

With a deep breath, you unlock the doors. Gesture for him to get in the passenger side.

He immediately rounds the car, prying the door open and climbing inside just as a SUV pulls out the row he and Deb had walked down.

The door slams when he yanks it closed. The sound echoes through the cab of the car.

“You wanna fuckin’ explain what you’re doin’ here?” he snaps. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, embarrassment and now, anger, spooling hot behind your ears.

You know you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t have followed him. But does he have to be so hostile?

When your gaze finally meets his, he looks — distraught — jaw clenched and lips set in a straight line. His fingers absently dig into denim-covered thighs.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, “I just wanted to see how you were with her.” And it’s the truth; not one you want to be admitting right now, to him, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“Doesn’t give you the right to spy on me.”

“So what was I supposed to do? Sit at home and mope while the guy I was seeing is on a date with someone else? Oh no, I’m sorry,” you throw your hands up, form air quotes with your fingers, “the guy I was fooling around with.”

This seems to strike a nerve. His jaw twitches, and his fingers still on his lap.

“It wasn’t like that,” he grits

“No? Isn’t that all this was to you: fooling around?”

There’s a beat. Joel sighs.

“No — fuck, no. Of course not.”

His expression softens. A crack in solid stone. “I tried callin’ you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” you admit.

He nods. Another beat.

“Did you kiss her?” you ask.

“No.” He says it with intent, with promise, eyes firmly locked on yours now.

Your mouth goes dry.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want her?”

“No,” he says flatly, his pupils bulging in the lamplight, black bleeding into the brown of his irises. “I don’t want her.”

“Why not?”

He leans forward. His weight presses into the center console and his breath fans your face — warm, tinged with the scent of cheap beer.

“I don’t want her,” he says, voice an octave lower, “because I want you. I thought you knew that?”

The radio drones between the two of you, some classic rock song you think you recognize flitting through the speaker. Your pulse beats staccato in your throat, off tempo.

“You want me?” you ask, a little breathless, and the next words you say are beyond dumb, beyond reckless, but you say them anyway. “Prove it.”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the slight distance between you and kisses you, hard, his tongue frantically sliding against yours through parted lips.

It’s sloppy, and desperate, and you feel drunk on the taste of him, on longing laced with carnal need. He’s groaning into your mouth, grabbing your head with both hands, burying his fingers in your hair — as if he can’t get close enough, as if he’ll only be satisfied once he’s swallowed you whole. You’re pretty sure you want him to.

Your hands move frantically to his t-shirt, then, bunch into the fabric and pull. You need to feel the skin underneath, need to rove your hands along his bare chest. He accommodates, tugging the shirt by the back of the collar, lips separating from yours ever-so-briefly to bring it over his head and toss it onto the backseat.

And then he’s back on you, licking into your mouth again, eliciting a whimper from you when his hand wraps around the side of your throat, just under your jaw.

Your palms splay across his torso, wander over warm, golden skin. You’ve missed this, god, you’ve missed this — but it’s still not enough. You need to feel more of him. In your mouth, in your hand, in your cunt — you’re not picky. Just need him in whatever way he’ll provide.

“Joel,” you whimper into his mouth, fingers winding around his bicep.

He pulls back. Peers at you through hooded eyes. “What is it, baby?” he asks through labored breaths.

“Need you — please.”

He immediately unbuckles your seatbelt. Lowers his seat back and manhandles you onto his lap. You go easily; slot yourself to him with legs folded on either side of his thighs.

Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you grind down into his lap. His cock strains against denim underneath you. He groans when you swivel your hips and brush the heft of it again with your clothed heat.

“You gonna let me fuck you?” he asks into your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours.

Your breath catches.

You know what he’s really asking: are you going to let him fuck you here, in the parking lot of a public establishment, where anybody could see?

But you don’t care. In fact, you’re way past caring, the emptiness of your cunt too painful to ignore any longer. Let them watch him take what’s his.

You nod frantically. “Yes,” you pant. “Please.”

Joel nods too, as if he’s accepting his fate. He’s going to fuck his friend’s daughter in the passenger seat of her car. There’s no way around it — not when you’re begging for it. He’s going to give you what you need.

“Okay,” he soothes, “I got you baby.”

He helps you out of your pants, then; clumsily maneuvers them down and off your legs along with your panties and tosses them aimlessly into the back.

He doesn’t bother to take his jeans off. Lets you unzip them and pop the button open, your nimble fingers making quick work of it. And then you’re pulling his cock out of his boxers, stiff and leaking in your grasp.

You steady yourself with hands on his shoulders just as he begins to pepper placating kisses along your neck. “Go ahead baby,” he whispers into your ear. “Take it; it’s yours.”

His head falls back against the seat as you stroke him a few times and line his cock up with your dripping entrance, his hands clasped around your waist.

You sink down slowly, savoring every inch of him as he burrows in deeper. He’s so thick, stretching you like it’s the first time again, your walls fluttering as they relax around his cock.

“Fuck,” Joel slurs, fingers digging into your skin impatiently when you still, fully seated on him.

“Gotta move baby — please move.”

He’s so fucking deep, though, his cockhead bumping your cervix, and your entire body feels gelatinous atop him. A cloying sort of heat hangs around your head. You swivel your hips weakly, your forehead falling to rest on his with a heavy sigh.

Joel is happy to take control, bucking up into you so hard you see stars. You can’t suppress the string of moans that spill from your mouth, and Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just as loud, anyway, his broken sounds bleeding into yours, bouncing off glass and leather.

Neither of you can muster an actual word, though, not with him rutting up into you, sheathing himself in your pussy over and over again. He’s relentlessly hitting that spot — the one that has you practically clinging to him for dear life.

It’s approaching too quickly; he’s going to make you come.

One of your hands flies to the roof of the car in an attempt to brace yourself, flat palm pressing into it so hard you worry it’ll pop.

Joel takes the opportunity to drag you down in his lap, spearing you on his cock, and the sudden change in angle makes you cry out.

“Oh f— ahh, oh my—“

“That’s it,” he coos, “you got it, babygirl.”

His words tip you over the edge, your entire body locking up as you gush around him. You’re wetting his lap, slick splattering his thighs, and he loves it, his fervid moan telling you so.

His movements begin to falter then, hips stuttering underneath you as he chases his own high.

“Cmon, baby,” you goad, “please fill me up.”

He grunts when he spills inside, his face nestling in your chest, heaving as he works through it and begins to come down. You don’t move, not that Joel would let you, still holding you on his lap like he’s afraid to let you go.

You nuzzle into his embrace as his cock softens inside you.

You stay like that for a while, probably too long given that anybody could easily look into the car and see you straddling him. You don’t have the energy to care.

Eventually, you lift your head from its spot on Joel’s chest. Look up at him with bleary eyes.

“Joel,” you say.

He meets your gaze, face shiny with sweat and his hair a mess. He looks gorgeous like this, you think. The way only you get to see him.

“Yeah?” He grazes along your arm with featherlight fingers. His touch raises goosebumps on your skin.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“About wanting me.” In truth, you’re not sure you want the answer. But you need to know, definitively, if Joel is yours. You’re done sharing him.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls. “Of course I do. You’re all I want. Do you want me?”

And it’s a stupid question. He has to know that. You’re nodding before he can even finish it. “Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Joel”

“Then it’s settled. It’s me and you. No more…interlopers.”

You giggle. Reluctantly separate yourself from his body and re-dress. You settle back into the driver’s seat with achy legs.

You’ve never felt more content than you do in this moment.

Still, you’ll have to hide — won’t be able to share the news of your new relationship with friends or coworkers, your dad — and neither will Joel.

You don’t care much, not as long as he’s yours, but you need to be sure he feels the same.

“Joel,” you stop him as he opens the passenger-side door to get out. He stills with one leg swung out the door.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind…being a secret? Don’t mind keeping me a secret?”

He looks at you like you have two heads.

He pulls his leg back into the car. Shuts the door and leans over the console again.

Taking your chin between his fingers, he forces your gaze. Makes sure you’re listening.

“I want you — doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Long as you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens, and your heart squeezes inside your ribcage.

“I’m yours?”

He smiles. Presses a chaste kiss between your eyes, on the tip of your nose, on your lips. The same way he did the other morning.

It all feels somehow sweeter, now.

“Yeah, angel. You’re mine. My girl.”

end notes: tysm for reading! please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed! I've been toying with the idea of turning this into a series so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in hehe.

Also, I hopped on the bandwagon and made a sideblog for notifs! I'll be doing away with a taglist from here on out, so follow @joelscurlsupdates & turn on notifications if you wanna be notified when I post a new fic :-)

tag list: @janaispunk @amanitacowboy @fhatbhabie @frannyzooey @lola8888673

#joel x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction

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