#yellow clawed man

[manylittleguys]

Hi! We're a plural sideblog from Theta's main account. This blog is meant to be a safe space for us, away from our main account where we are not openly plural. I (Arachne) made this blog for the rest of us just to talk about being plural, ramble a bit about our origins or our interests. Just whatever comes to someone's mind. We are a fictive heavy system.

Collective Intros: + anyone's signoff tag info. if not provided, they likely use their name as a signoff and no tag

Core System: the main body of the system, folks who aren't part of sidesystems

Arachne, Administrator & Collective Archivist. it/she. #The library spider

Theta, Host, MINOR. they/them, OG body-keeper. #thetaposting

Deadpool, Prosecutor, fictive. any, go crazy, have fun with my pronouns. no you do not have permission to call me by my name. #red. should be dead. no redemption

Wolverine, Anger Issues Holder, fictive. he/him (subject to change) no you do not have permission to call me by my name. #yellow clawed man. posts exclusively in orange text

Boo, introject. they/them (will change) #the cabinet maggot. posts exclusively in purple text

Eddie Brock, fictive. he/they ("they" ONLY when referring to Venom and Eddie collectively while using Eddie's name exclusively)

Venom, introject. it/they ("they" ONLY when referring to Eddie and Venom collectively while using Venom's name exclusively)

Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, introject. he&/they& (While being technically separate in headspace, they& are incapable of fronting separately and wish to be referred to as a unit) #The Holmes Siblings Are Speaking And You Will Listen

Mycroft Holmes, fictive. any "masculine" pronouns (no opinion) #The Holmes Siblings Are Speaking And You Will Listen

Eurus Holmes, introject. any pronouns (feminine preference) #The Holmes Siblings Are Speaking And You Will Listen

Gregory House, introject. he/him

The Pantheon: Sidesystem of Doctor Who fictives. They mostly keep to the innerworld as of late. collective he/they/it, although if any of them decide otherwise they'll bring it up. Collective tags: #🟦⏳, #the doctor speaks

Montessori Sidesystem: made up mostly of minors. please interact accordingly

J, Protector/Caretaker/Babysitter, fictive. he/they/it. #Cowboy Dad

Anoitos, syskid. he/she. #anni cherub

Dipper, syskid, fictive. he/they

Mabel, syskid, fictive. she/her

Link, frequent fronter, Chef & Rationalizer, fictive. they/he. #💚🗡️

A Major Sidesystem: SCP Foundation fictives. collective tags: #a major system, #🔫🤠

Francis W, frequent fronter, Gatekeeper, Consul, fictive. he/they

Apollo, Caretaker, Substitute Babysitter for the Montessori sidesys, noncanon fictive. he/him

Ukulele, Gunslinger & Auxiliary Gatekeeper, fictive. they/them

Alto (signs posts with "A.Clef" and variations), fictive. they/it. #Gay Horror Music Man

anyways, we're still not 100% clear on our complete origins, but we support endo/non-traumagenic systems. not going to have a collective DNI, but don't be rude, and we block liberally.

- Arachne

Edit: any headmates who do not front or use this blog have been removed from this list and/or will not be added until they do, even if they are referenced by other headmates.

[manylittleguys]

Yeah, 228 years is enough for me, thanks. I'm done here. Have been done for around 128 years. Not interested, not in the slightest.

[tundraaawolf]

Ooohhhhh to have jet black fur and bright amber eyes

And to have my fur turn a beautiful shade of blackened rust under the sun......

[torchiiko]

at this ppoint idk what conventionally attractive means for characters anymore. my taste is so skewed & im in circles where ppl mostly feel the same i just cant tell,, i knoe what it means for characters who more closely resemble humans but like. how many Non brainrotted ppl are down to kiss a guy whose face is literally just a phone

how far from human looking does a character have to stray before it starts getting hard to tell if theyre attractive on an objective level

[marvelousmrm]

Invincible Iron Man #75 (Friedrich/Jones, June 1975). Tony is a pawn in the villains’ free-for-all orchestrated by the Black Lama. Is that his old flame Marianne telepathically linking the players?

[lonepower]

every time i relisten to ep. 1 there's Another thing to chew on I'm just [clenches fist] im so goddamn normal

[pukicho]

What's the weirdest dream/nightmare you've had?

Pukicho story time???

This happened in 2004, I lived in Ireland. I had one very particular dream that I still often think about to this day:

It started in an unusual flat, somewhere up high. It was modern for the time, it felt decidedly Y2K. Every piece of furniture, the walls, the lamps, they were all bright pink. It was so trendy that it almost felt like a parody of itself, but I was a kid, and my mind wasn't clever enough for the act of parody. I would've simply forgotten this flat ever existed if the latter-half of the dream didn't leave such a permanent mark on my memory - now I can recall every last detail.

I asked a stranger to use the restroom. The toilet was downstairs, so I opened up the door to a utility stairwell and began heading down, alone.

I could look through the center of the staircase column, it was pitch-black and there was no visible bottom. I remember going down the staircase for hours, literal hours - A dark, oppressive hum from pipes and vents blinded my ears and shook the inside of my stomach with its volume. I remember thinking how long the dream felt in this moment, I recall getting consciously impatient, but I kept going. My eyes couldn't adjust to the nearly invisible-darkness surrounding me so I put my hand against the walls and handrail for guidance and shuffled downward like a blind man without his walking-stick.

Finally, only a moment before the tension would have juddered me awake, I found the door to the bathroom. I opened it up; to my relief there was light. The room was rectangular, on one end was a boxed-shaped shower with fogged glass, on the other end, a toilet. The floor and wall were decorated by the same beige tile - it all looked hastily plastered. I sat down to do my business. At this moment, the ballooning anxiety I had felt outside had dissipated almost entirely. I sat in silence - I remember acknowledging the sheer contrast in volume between the AC-hum in the bathroom to the oppressive roar from the stairwell.

It was good to be sitting there. I remember feeling as though the dream had slowly turned into a nightmare - but consciously, everything felt right again. Nothing happened for a long time. It grew so boring and tame that my mind stopped focusing on the dream entirely, and I began fading into memoryless sleep. And then the lights went out.

At this point, sitting in a darkness even blacker than the one I had just emerged from, not even a hum could be heard. The only noise I could hear, and just barely, was my own brain-matter hitting against the sides of my ears, bellowing a deep subharmonic hum from within my own skull. Suddenly, every semblance of safety was ripped from my chest, and I sat there, feeling in greater danger than I ever had before. I felt a pressure so omniscient that it choked me -- but nothing came, nothing happened. I waited for minutes - minutes where each second could be counted down in scrutinizing specificity, but nothing happened.

Suddenly, and with no presumption, I felt coarse electricity pumping through my chest. I wrangled with myself in my own bed, feeling what felt like infinite pain pass through me. I could feel myself yelling from within the dream through the vibration of my lungs. A cacophonous buzzing bled into my ears as thousands of people screamed from within my skull. The cries of a falling choir ran-through their screams, like angels falling from heaven.

At the very same moment, a body appeared in the shower. It glowed yellow, so bright and irradiated I could hardly look directly at it. It caressed itself, clawing into its body like it was reeling from immeasurable pain. It moved unnaturally, squirming and spasming as if fast-forwarded. The glass blurred its details, but it did nothing to mask its energy. It was as if it held the sun inside of its own stomach. I felt as though an intruder entered my own mind and I had no power to stop it. Just being near it was enough to kill me, and I was already dying.

The wall of sound lasted not even one full-second - and then - a piercing zap shot me up from my bed, and that was it. I can't remember anything past that point, but I assume I went back to bed shortly thereafter, forgetting what had just happened, if only for that one night. I must have had a vapid dream, worthless and memoryless, unknowing that I had just lived a dream so dreadful that it'd stick to my psyche like tar for the rest of my life.

No other dream has ever felt that way since. It was as if a second-soul decided to visit me, a soul stronger and more omnipotent than mine. Surely a dream is just a dream, regardless of the feeling it gives you, but now I go to bed every night, wishing I'll be the only soul residing within its story.

End!!

[moonlight-prose]

a request, if i may, of praising old man logan as he filfthly eats you out and it makes him combust the more you praise him? okay running away again

speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life

a/n: look at him taking off his glasses in absolute shock of this ask- no okay does old man logan have a praise kink? i would raise it higher and say every version of logan has a massive praise kink. this is a man who wants to know he's doing good in life. his love language is acts of service so he might get to hear a pretty thank you. also i'm not sorry for how feral this got. i have no explanation.

summary: he knew he loved you when your words begin to piece his heart back together. he knew he loved you when he flourishes at your praise. he knew he loved you when nothing in this world could matter but the sound of your voice telling him you love him too.

word count: 3k+

pairing: old man!logan x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), praise kink, logan is obsessed, dirty talk via reader, he is so pretty when he blushes, manhandling, cumplay, cumeating, overstimulation, crying, he's needy in this one, angst, tortured soul of an old man, reverence, religious trauma + greek mythology hints.

He can feel the strings of fate pull tight around his broken heart. In a failed attempt to draw him back together. To piece together an organ that barely beat for him anymore. He might have felt it once, before it broke. Before it gnarled itself like the branches of a dying tree, one half twisting away from the other in a desperate attempt of survival.

He deemed it a useless part of his body until you came along. You with your smile that held enough cloying sweetness to choke him as he stood helpless. Silently begging for you to say his name. To bring him back to life.

Whatever horrors that plagued his mind—endless nightmares that promised nothing but anguish—suddenly came crashing to a halt at the sight of you. So pretty in your denim jeans and velvet top. An angel seated in the center of a bar that held more filth than you deserved to be near. Logan couldn’t fathom that luck struck him this hard.

Not when death had already claimed his soul; notched yet another tally in the endless wall of people that came before.

He felt the dirt pack under his nails as he clawed his way out of the grave he put himself in. Years spent alone—a man lost to the ravages of time—had turned him bitter. With rough edges and biting words that stung far more than he intended. How could he believe he deserved to live after he contributed so much to the endless pool of blood that tainted his soul? How was he allowed such softness after biting off bits of brutality his whole life?

Logan was pretty sure he survived on borrowed time that had already run out. He could feel death breathe down his neck as the days went on. A reminder that what little of his life remained would be spent suffering. And he found that accepting it was easier than battling against the will of God, or whoever toyed with his lifeline.

It was far easier to die than find a reason to live.

Until you said his name.

Softly. Sweetly. Reverence wrapped in a tight grasp of need.

You brought him back from the edge—took his hand and refused to take no for an answer. You and the safety of your touch; the promise in your kiss. You dragged him into a life he didn’t earn; one that almost tasted too sweet—too sour.

After near a decade of being buried beneath the dirt, he felt himself collapse above ground and suck in his first real gasp of fresh air. Alive, once more. Hell spit him out with a vow of love and who was he to argue against it.

His fingers dug into your plush thighs, tugging them open to see what lay between. He marveled at their softness, eyes wide and awestruck at the sight of you spread beneath him. You practically glowed in the dim light of the bedside table. Yellow, musty, yet angelic when it caressed your body with its heavenly touch.

He wondered if this was real life; your nails digging sharply into his shoulders gave him the answer.

"Logan," you sighed, voice high with need.

The strings pulled taught. A vice like hold that drew him to you.

Maybe that's what this unutterable feeling was. The gnawing pit at the bottom of his heart. A greed he'd never indulged before—too afraid of what it might ask for next. He wasn't a man who asked for much. Rather someone that found himself far too content with nothing. But tonight he found his lips forming the words of a false prayer that his mother taught him as a child.

Hail the angel in his bed. Hail every good fucking thing you brought into his life.

His teeth sunk into your thigh, body jolting at your responding moan. Fingers dug into his hair, tugging at the mussed locks with a high pitched whine. You were a needy little thing, but Logan found he desperately wanted to be needed.

He smiled laving his tongue over the tender spot, working his way up to where you dripped for him.

So slick. So perfect.

Saliva filled his mouth. "What do ya want baby?"

Your chest heaved; he could feel the heat of your body under his palms. "Your m-mouth Logan."

His eyes trailed along your brow covered in a sheen of sweat. The room was thick with the humid air of the outside world. But that didn't deter him from craving your skin near his. The pressure of your thighs around his head a welcome weight. If he sunk his teeth in where the curve of your leg met your hip he knew he could draw out that soft choking noise he longed to hear on days spent driving alone.

If he had his way he'd crawl into you to seek your serenity straight from the source. He'd never divulge about the ache that chewed him up on the inside, but Logan wondered if you knew. Could you tell how much he craved you? How much he couldn't live without you.

When your glittering eyes met his, the resolve he spent years building cracked like glass. You peered into him as if he was a stained glass window. A god you were more than happy to worship.

"You want me to lick this pretty pussy?" Fuck, he sounded drunk off your taste already.

His mouth hovered over your throbbing clit, your scent now filling his senses. Overwhelming him with what he wanted most. But he needed to hear it. The lilt of your begging; the soft echo of your need that washed over him like soothing river water.

He couldn't live without it.

"Yes," you sobbed, thigh twitching.

The string sliced his heart open, blood pooling onto the white bed sheets. Oh what a sweet death your love made. Oh...what a bittersweet way to go.

He'd die right now if you asked him to. Hand over his heart on a silver platter if you so wished it. Maybe that made him far too gone for his own good, but Logan couldn't remember a time in his life where he got this. Safety. The hope of love burning far too bright and far too hot for him to fly near it.

Yet there he was. Icarus happily soaring in your sun like glow.

"I got ya honey," he murmured. "Gonna take care of what's mine."

You nodded frantically—tears welling up in your eyes. "You take care of me Logan."

The breath in his chest stuttered, eyes dark as the words fell past your swollen lips. He wanted to explain why his cock twitched against his stomach. Why he now leaked into the sheet with heavy panted breaths. But every time he came up short with the words needed to form an answer.

"Yeah I do sweetheart," he breathed. "Don't I?"

"Uh-huh."

"Take care of what belongs to me."

There was no warning when his hands dragged you closer with a rough tug, mouth closing over your clit with a desperate suck. A cry wrenched from your mouth, sparks sharply traveling down your spine. He licked through your slick with a growl. Hands an unbreakable press against your thighs.

The sight of your body bowed, mouth open for small gasped breaths that never came, snapped something in his mind. He was an old man. Well past his years. But the taste of your pussy along his tongue brought back a ferocity he often tamped down in his younger age. He felt the feral want claw at his chest, and answered it with a broken snarl.

Swallowing down every drop you gave him, he plunged his tongue into your entrance, thrusting messily until a smear of your shiny slick began to coat his mouth. It covered his cheeks and clung to the hair of his beard. He'd clean it out later, taste you on his tongue until he was aching for another go. But for now he was preoccupied with the way you cried for him.

"Oh fuck!" Your thighs trembled over his shoulders, hips canting down to drag yourself along his tongue. "So good."

He shuddered, eyes rolling back at the sound of your praise. You caught it within seconds, lips pulling into a breathless smile that left him gasping for air. His teeth nipped at your thigh briefly as his hips ground into the mattress below.

"You like that baby?" you breathed, thumb smearing your own slick against his cheek.

Something hot washed over his body. A needy sick and twisted ache that he'd never indulged in before. He wanted to be a good man to you; longed to be needed. And fuck if you didn't give him everything.

You were his walking wet dream. His future handed off and wrapped in a neat little bow.

"L-Love your tongue Logan-" A high gasp tore from your throat when he dived back in. Slurping at your clit with a heady moan as you dragged him closer. "Taking care of me so well."

His hips canted down into the bed, fucking his cock along the warmth of his stomach, as you gushed into his mouth again. Eyes zeroed in on your face, pupils dilated as he growled into your flesh. You no longer could see the man you loved, but the feral side he tamped down during the day. The animal he longed to release in your presence.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum."

His arms looped around your thighs and with a sharp yank, he had his face buried deep enough to suffocate himself. You sobbed an incoherent version of his name. Nails clawed at his shoulders, but Logan could feel the pulse of your clit under his tongue.

He sucked it into his mouth with a grunt, rolling it along his tongue as you trembled with the oncoming shocks of an orgasm that threatened to destroy you.

Tears dripped down your cheeks and Logan felt the satisfying part of his heart begin to stitch itself back together. The strings were tight enough to numb his pain. To quell the flare of agony.

That used to be all he knew, all he counted on most days. When there was nothing left and he'd propped the shovel in the dirt—his grave open and waiting—he stumbled right into your arms. He found his reason for living.

Heat curled around his spine as you shook with the impending orgasm—the stimulation on your clit practically debilitating. He grunted into your soaked flesh, eyes narrowed as he chased the release that pulled his stomach taut. But this wasn't for him to indulge in; this wasn't his pleasure.

So with a throaty moan you felt reverberate along your body, he scraped his teeth along your clit and watched as your body went stiff.

"Logan!" you cried, fingers scrambling for purchase on any part of him you could reach.

You gushed into his awaiting mouth, praises of it's so good, you're so good falling upon his ears like the whimpered prayers of a devout worshiper thanking your god.

"Taste so fuckin' good," he mumbled, drunk on what you gave him.

He didn't care that you were jolting with each pass of his tongue along your pussy. He didn't care that you were shocked with overstimulation, small broken cries of his name muffled by the press of your thighs against his ears. He licked at you until he couldn't breathe. Buried his tongue into your twitching entrance and sucked out your cum with a happy hum.

"P-Please." You tugged at his hair, pulling him off you with a sob. "I-I can't anymore Logan."

"'M not fuckin' finished," he said, eyes glazed and face coated in your slick.

You made a mess of his face. The light catching along where you spilled into his mouth and along his throat. And still he wanted more. He'd spend hours between your thighs, burning your skin with his beard, if it meant he could divulge in your sweetness.

"It hurts-"

A grunt rumbled in his chest, his arms tugging you back even as your feet kicked along his back. "Just one more honey. Yeah?"

You shook your head. "B-But-"

"Thought you said it was good."

"It is."

"Then lemme be good for you." He wanted to tell you that the world went quiet between your thighs. That all his grief, all his pain, lessened when you sobbed his name.

He wanted to show you the string that looped his heart to yours—the only thing keeping him alive—and thank you for bringing him back from the dead. But words weren't his forte. Violence had become the only tenderness he knew and you didn't deserve the rough edges of an old man. You should have more.

But when you let him touch you like this—caress your skin and lick between your folds—he felt as if he was a man who finally was worthy of someone as precious as you. He could pretend he didn't bear the brunt of a fucked up soul.

The weight on his chest lifted when your tear filled gaze met his and you nodded. Small, barely there, but it was enough for him to seal his mouth back over you with a ragged moan. Your body shook as his tongue slid through the seam of your pussy. The tip nudging against your clit—careful to draw the pleasure from your body slowly.

He didn't want to give you pain. His heart wouldn't survive that. But he was a broken man; someone who begged for more even as his teeth sunk into what was already given.

You were his meal. His sacrament in the midnight hours until dawn broke across the darkened sky. You were the other half of his soul.

How could he not indulge in your sweetened tang until his tongue went stiff?

"I love you," you sighed, eyes rolled back when he sucked at your pussy, a wet low moan echoing in the air. "My p-perfect husband."

The cold press of his wedding band against your thigh drove him over the edge. You weren't officially married. Didn't have the backyard wedding with a preacher to match. But Logan had placed a ring on your finger near a year ago, sliding one over his own with the vow of forever cemented in his words.

Even if that didn't mean much in the eyes of a god who abandoned him near a century ago.

"Oh-"

Your head tipped back, mouth dropping open as his fingers dipped into your wet heat. Thrusting lazily until he found the spongey patch along your walls—driving the pad of his middle finger into it with a needy moan.

He knew it wouldn't take long for you to fly off the edge of a second release. That didn't make watching you climb to that peak any less satisfying. The sight appeased his soul. It gave him a chance to breathe; let him know that after so much bad—after so much pain—he could do something good. He could bring you to the edge of pleasure and drag you over again and again.

He could finally be the man you believed he was.

Not the animal they created.

"C'mon," he muttered. Eyes fixed on the shape of your breasts as your body curved off the bed. Hips dragging along his face with a stunted cry.

A wail bounced off the walls, piercing his eardrums with the symphony of your cries. His fingers rapidly pumped into you with a squelch that had heat burning his cheeks—lips pulling your throbbing clit into his mouth as you broke. The climax slammed into you; battering your already swollen pussy.

Logan could feel his cock swell at the sight.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grunted, teeth bared as he clambered to his knees and wrapped his fist soaked in your slick around his leaking cock. "'M gonna cum sweetheart."

Your eyes fluttered open, fingers digging into his thigh. "Please. Wanna see it baby. Look so pretty when you cum Logan."

His chest tightened, body shaking while you watched in rapture as he fucked his fist rapidly. He wouldn't fucking last, could feel the burning consume his body, but something held him back. The string around his heart yanked him away from the edge, tearing a cry from his throat when his frustration peaked.

You could see it—the glimmer of need in his dark eyes. This wasn't the first time he longed for your words. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

So you spread your legs and sat up slowly—arms wrapping around his shoulders to bring his lips down to yours. A soft moan was muffled by your mouth; the peak of his release within reach. He could practically feel the tips of his fingers graze it.

"Cover my pussy baby," you mumbled into his mouth. "Be good for me and mark what's yours."

The growl came from the very bottom of his chest when he finally came. Your name was a bitten out snarl pressed to your mouth in an open mouth kiss as he spurted over his knuckles. He pumped his cock to milk every drop; eyes fixed on the way it covered the swollen lips of your pussy. Dripping down to your entrance that fluttered at the sight of his sweaty and crimson tinged face.

"I fuckin' love ya honey," he murmured, hand cupping your chin to drag your lips back to his. "Best thing that's happened in my life is you."

You smiled, thumbs pressing to his cheeks. "Love you too Logan."

Clutching you close, he felt the string go loose. The breath finally rushing back into his lungs at the sight of your eyes glowing with the kind of light that brought him back to the first day The night he met you in that shitty bar—alcohol the only thing on his mind until he saw you.

The night you spoke his name over his covered grave and dragged him back to life with a smile.

[d1stalker]

Collateral Damage [Logan Howlett]

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

Then, out of nowhere, the ground trembles.

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

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

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

Until they show up.

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

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

Maybe they can stop this!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday to me, I guess.

—

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

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

The X-Men.

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

Storm. Cyclops. Wolverine. Jean Grey.

Mutants with powers like gods.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hits you.

Oh, no way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one hears you, or even acknowledges you.

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

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

This is absurd!

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

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

Boom.

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

Your heart sinks.

They blew it up.

—

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

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

You chuckle, already anticipating the joke, when—

BAM!

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

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

Great, just great.

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

Cyclops.

Are you fucking serious?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, there goes the last of your patience.

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

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

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

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

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

Silence falls.

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

“Woah, bub—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You don’t get it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Knock. Knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, he’s faster.

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

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

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

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

“Can’t control it, bub,” he shrugs. 

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

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

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

“You’re not safe here.”

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

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

You falter. “What are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That stops you in your tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re fine without me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That does it. 

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

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

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

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

Both out of sight, he finally releases you. 

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

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

“Follow you where?” you ask. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

I can’t keep this up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It exists solely to hunt you down. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

He was right. You were just getting started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too beautiful to ignore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cute, you think absentmindedly, then pause. 

What the fuck?

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

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

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

Yup. That’s it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

– L

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s messing with you on purpose.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

“Great,” you mutter. “More bad news.”

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

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

He smirks. “You’re gonna need it.”

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

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

—

“So, how can they be stopped?”

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

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

“I gathered that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to be a part of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sighing, “I’ll think about it.”

—

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

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

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

“How’d it go?” he asks gruffly.

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

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

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

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

He hums softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You quirk a brow. “Then what changed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what do I do now?”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“Hey, bub.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The city? What city?”

“New York.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can't accept that," you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me?” You blink, caught off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where did that come from? 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t brood,” you glare.

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

“You wouldn’t.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up, Summers,” 

“Shut up, One-Eye”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect for each other? Yeah, right.

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

You’re screwed.

—

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

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

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

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

You freeze. Who could possibly—

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

Goddamn it. It's always him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And something strikes you—they’re doing it.

They’re minimizing the damage.

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

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

He kept his promise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t—" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— —

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

—

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

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

— —

You snap.

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

Weak? Liability?

No. Not this time. 

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

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

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

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

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re okay. It’s over.

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

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

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

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

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

“I could kiss you right now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!”

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

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

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

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

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

—

“So… are we gonna talk about it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where you goin'?" he rumbles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sound it elicits from you is lethal. 

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

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

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

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

Your mind goes blank. 

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

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

And you do. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

A/N: feedback is greatly appreciated!

[bi-writes]

hiiiii I'm new to your page but i would like to ask you what would've happened if simon mail-ordered a bride?

mail-order bride

you stare down at the address on the card, blinking as you reread the house number and look back up at the cottage in front of you. the numbers match, but you just need a few more minutes before you knock on the door.

you're not holding too many things. you have one suitcase with the entirety of your belongings at one side, the cat carrier sitting on top of it. on the other side, you hold a bundle of papers. your immigration papers, all shiny and new, your birth certificate, and your new british passport.

when you look back down, you swallow as you read over your name. it's odd, to see something new in the section labeled SURNAME.

Riley.

you've never met him. this isn't legal, it can't be, to have all of these things. he must be someone important. someone they value. or maybe, they are just too afraid to say no to him.

the front door opens, and you freeze on the spot as you see someone duck their head to step outside. they're wearing a mask, covering their entire face except for their dark eyes, but it's hitched up over his nose as he holds an unlit cigarette between his lips.

he stares as he sees you at the end of the steps. he frowns, looking you up and down.

"weren't supposed ta be 'ere for a few weeks."

your eyes water a little, but you only manage a shrug.

"i-i..." you meet his eyes. "i-i couldn't stay there any longer. i didn't have anywhere else to go."

he tucks the cigarette back behind his ear, slipping the mask off. it reveals a tousled mess of short blonde hair and a terribly scarred face. his eyes dart to the little carrier sitting next to you when he hears a soft meow coming from it.

"said no pets."

your lip trembles.

"please," you whisper, and his lip twitches as he fights off a scowl. you imagine he must not have much practice in hiding his emotions. he comes down the steps anyways, coming closer, and you pick up the carrier as he snatches the suitcase off the pavement, making his way back inside. you follow him, naturally.

when you close the door behind you, you're surprised at how quaint it all is. nice brick fireplace, a soft carpet (no shoes allowed is what he snapped at you), and wonderfully furnished to make the place cozy, warm, lived-in. there's throw blankets and accent pillows. there's pictures on the walls, paintings, yellow corner lights to give everything a soft glow. the kitchen is beautiful, with lovely colored tile and wooden cutting boards, a drip-coffee setup in the corner and worn cookbooks stacked neatly by a stainless steel toaster. there's herbs growing in little pots sitting on the windowsill above the sink, and there's a cast iron pot decoratively resting on the stove.

it's spick-span clean. there's no specks of dust or splatters left over from bacon grease. there's papers pinned to the fridge, lists to remind him to buy whole milk and sliced bread and call about the internet bill being charged twice again.

you set the carrier down on the couch, unzipping the top. a little curious black head pokes out of it, and you reach in and pick the cat up under its belly and drop it onto the floor. immediately, the cat spreads its front paws, claws sticking out as they begin to knead the carpet and use it as a personal scratcher, the prick, prick, prick sound enough to draw the giant man out of the bedroom with a hard frown on his face.

he points at the thing and shakes his head.

"keep tha' thing off the fawkin' counter," he snaps at you. he purses his lips when he sees you still standing there, afraid to even move. he comes closer, the cat scurrying off, and he yanks your coat and scarf off, going to the hang them up by the door. "can unpack tomorrow. need t'make somethin' ta eat."

you move immediately towards the kitchen, hoping he keeps a stocked fridge, but he puts out a big hand and stops you, stepping in front of you.

"the fuck are y'doin'?" he asks, and you blink up at him.

"you said to make dinner...s-sir?"

he tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes.

"y'listen t'this," he murmurs. "women don't lift a fuckin' finger in this house, y'hear?"

you nod, and he reaches up and palms your throat, cupping your jaw.

"and my wife doesn't call me sir," he mutters. "it's simon."

you soften a little. "i-i'm sorry, simon."

"don't apologize," he grits his teeth. "did nothin' wrong."

when a fresh set of tears comes down your face, he wipes them away with ease, calloused thumb swiping over your cheeks and quieting you. he puts something into your hands, a velvet box that he must've gotten when he went to put your suitcase away.

"y'r a riley now, yeah?" he murmurs, and you tilt your head at an angle, and your foreheads brush together when he bends low to speak to you. "act like it."

you lean up on your toes (he's so fucking tall), and you kiss him softly beside his mouth. when he moves his head, your lips brush against each other, but he pulls back to make his way to the kitchen. you hear the gas stove light up, and a few minutes later, there's a familiar smell of onions hitting hot olive oil.

you take a seat on the couch, smiling to yourself, wiping your eyes as you curl up there. you flip open the box, sighing shakily when you see the rectangular diamond and matching gold wedding band. when simon comes back in to give you a mug of tea, you take it with your left hand, and his eyes flicker when he notices the new jewelry there, so pretty, so new.

mine.

when he pads back into the kitchen, the cat blinks up at him slowly, green eyes bright as they sit on the counter.

simon walks past it, saying nothing at all.

[manylittleguys]

unfriendly reminder: I bite

[sceletaflores]

HEAVY METAL LOVER!

pair: logan howlett x bartender!reader wc: 4.2k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, drinking, swearing, motorcycle rides, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering (fem!receiving), creampie, wolverine's hairy tits, the claws show up ofc, porn with plot, no use of y/n. author’s note: watched deadpool & wolverine twice in theaters, started rewatching the x-men movies, pondered many different thoughts, sat down and wrote this. i need him to breed me. title from lady gaga's 'heavy metal lover' cause it's literally his song.

the wolverine is a regular at your bar…

You're shining glasses behind the bar when you hear it, the gruff sound of Logan’s voice turning away yet another girl that worked up the courage to come up to him. It’s his third rejection of the night, not that you were counting.

You were, you always do. You pay more attention to that side of the bar than you normally would when he’s here, which is nearly everyday for the past three weeks. He's not like any of your other regulars. He's almost always alone, and he never talks to you except when he calls for another drink. 

The only reason you even know his real name at all is because Wade told you one of the nights he tagged along, leaning his elbows on the bar to whisper over the sugared rim of his "Piña Colada. Extra creamy please, you know how I like it..." like he was telling you a secret.

"Don't let him hurt your feels honey bunch. That's just classic Logan for you, a man of few words. Huge case of blue balls by the way." 

You remember the way he let the obvious innuendo hang in the air, the knowing look he gave you as he spun the little paper umbrella floating in his drink. You didn’t think you were being that obvious, that someone as socially inept as Wade was able to pick up on the way your eyes would linger a little too long on the broad width of Logan’s shoulders, on the way his arms would strain against the fabric of his flannels. 

You’d seen him on the news, thick corded muscles all wrapped in blue and yellow leather. It haunted you for days, playing in your mind on a constant loop of sweaty biceps until you finally gave in and pulled out your favorite vibrator. 

Even with that, there’s just something about the jeans and flannels he wears outside of the suit that make you want to jump over the bar and drop down to your knees right in front of him. Your mouth open wide and waiting.

The dull ‘thunk’ of Logan placing his empty glass on the bartop grabs your attention, two quick raps of his knuckles against the wood ripping you from your thoughts. “Another,” he says briskly, not looking away from the peeling backsplash on the wall behind you.

You usually snapped at men who’d bark orders at you, but The Wolverine isn’t just any man. He's certainly the only man you'd ever take orders from willingly, happily.

You grin, tossing your towel over your shoulder as you grab the whiskey bottle off the shelf and slide over to him, tipping the amber colored bottle over to start refilling his glass. “That’s the third one tonight,” you say casually, casting your eyes over his shoulder to the girl from before retreating back to her friends. “I take it you don’t come here looking for company?”

Logan’s eyes flick to yours, it’s the first time he’s looked at you all night. You look back, lips pulled into a small smile as more whiskey than you’d usually pour splashes against the sides of his glass. The music playing from the speakers fades into a dull hum around you.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, a flash of something you can't quite read passing through his eyes before he’s looking away again. “Not the kind you’re thinking of,” he replies, his voice a low rumble that has something warm zinging up your spine.

You set the bottle down next to him, brow piqued in curiosity. “And what kind is that?”

He doesn't respond right away, just raises the now full glass to his lips to take a slow sip. You almost think he’s going to ignore you again, but then he speaks, “You ask everyone that comes in here personal questions, bub?” 

There’s the barest hint of amusement lacing his words that has you biting your bottom lip to try and contain the absolute giddiness blooming in your chest. It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s ever given you before. Encouraged, you step in a little closer, hoping to draw him out further.

“Only the ones with their asses practically fused to my stools,” you shrug, a playful glint sparkling in your eyes. “So what is it, you got some poor wife you leave at home every time you come here? Because the ‘tall, dark, and kind of morally ambiguous’ thing is obviously working for you.”

Logan turns his eyes to you again, his brow raised in amusement. You’re close enough that you can see the way his lips turn up at the corners. He seems to consider your question, gaze slowly trailing along your face before flicking back to your eyes. "No wife," he replies, the words slow and deliberate. "No home to leave her at either.”

His response hangs in the air between you, heavier than you anticipated. You let out a soft breath, lips parting ever so slightly. You can practically feel the weight of his gaze settling over you, leaving your whole body warm and tingly. The heat swirling deep in your gut slipping down to pool wet and sticky in your panties. Logan’s eyes blink shut for just a second, the bridge of his nose twitching lightly.

You almost can’t believe this is really happening, that the angry guy at the end of your bar you’ve seen turn away pretty girl after pretty girl is flirting with you. It makes you feel dizzy with power, like you could do anything, but it’s also one of the most intimidating things you’ve ever experienced. You didn’t realize what it meant to be the center of Logan’s attention until now, but you refuse to back down.

 He gives an inch, so you take a mile.

Your grin widens as you lean your elbows on the bar, resting your chin on the heels of your hands. Logan doesn’t react to you invading his space, just keeps his eyes on you with a passive look on his face, but you don’t miss the way his gaze darts down to the low cut of your top.

“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into a softer more intimate tone, “that means you’re free later tonight?” You tilt your head to the side coyly, allowing your hair to cascade over your shoulder, the movement drawing his gaze.

Logan’s eyes widen the tiniest bit, a surprised huff leaving his lips. He raises his glass, taking another long drink. Your eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw to where his adam’s apple bobs enticingly as he swallows. Your lips tingle with the need to mark up the tan column of his throat, to sink your teeth in the skin there, to taste.

The neckline of his undershirt dips low enough that you can see the dark hair scattered across his chest, dog tags dangling from a chain around his neck to sit in the center.

You drag your eyes back up to his face, flushing when you see that he's already looking at you over the rim of his drink. He sets his half drained glass down, a skeptical look on his face. “How old are you, kid?”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, dropping your palms to lay flat on the bartop. If that makes your top dip a little lower to flash more of your cleavage in Logan’s eyeline, then that’s just a bonus. “Old enough to be here,” you reply after a short pause, gazing up at him from under your lashes, “Old enough to know what I want.”

Logan’s eyes darken, the warm brown of them seeming deeper and even more intense than before. The dim overhead lights cast shadows across his rugged features, highlighting the scruff on his jaw. You can’t help but imagine the rough scratch of it brushing up against your inner thighs.

Logan pushes his glass away, leaning in with a soft grunt, his eyes drop to your lips. You suck in a shocked breath, your whole body lighting up at being so close to him. Your heart is racing in your chest, a quick ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum that echoes in your ears.

His lips turn up in a sly grin, the sharp canines of his teeth on display. “Is that so?” He asks, voice going all husky like gravel and honey. He meets your eyes and you swear you can see the sparks going off in the air between you, everything else in the bar completely fizzling out as his breath mingles with yours. “Careful what you wish for,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak. “You might just get it.”

Your lips curve into a mischievous smile, the heat between you palpable. “I’m counting on it,” you reply, your voice dripping with promise. It takes everything in you to straighten up and pull away from Logan, stepping back with the forgotten bottle in your hand. “My shift ends at eleven,” you say with a small shrug, jerking your head to a door across the room, “staff leaves through the alley door.” 

It’s a clear invitation, one that Logan easily picks up on. His hungry gaze follows every move you make as you shelf the whiskey.

Before he can say anything, someone calls you from across the bar, shaking their empty glass impatiently. You throw him one last smile over your shoulder, mouthing ‘eleven‘ again with a quick nod of your head. You aren’t sure if it’s supposed to reassure you or him.

Logan smirks nonetheless, standing from the bar before draining the rest of his drink and throwing a few bills down. The air crackles as you watch him make his way towards the exit, eyes lingering on the way his jeans hug the thick muscles of his legs before someone is snapping their fingers at you to serve them.

The rest of your shift drags by, but the excitement and hope swirling in your stomach doesn’t fade. You’re practically thrumming with excitement by the time eleven rolls around, anticipation coursing through your veins as you clock out and grab your bag from your locker.

You pull the door to the alley open, the heavy metal creaking with the swing. The gravel crunches under your shoes as you step outside, eyes eagerly searching the space in search of Logan. The light mounted above the door shines around you, but you don’t see him anywhere. 

Just as disappointment starts to settle in your chest, you hear a loud rumble coming from the down the street. A bright light shines across the road as it gets closer and closer until there’s a motorcycle pulled up against the alley’s opening.

Logan kicks the bike’s stand down, leaning over to hold out a helmet in offering. “You coming or not?” he calls out, voice deep and teasing, “I’m not known for my patience.”

You can’t help but laugh, a mix of exhilaration and nervousness bubbling up inside you. With a confident stride, you walk toward him, the loud growl of the bike reverberates through your body like thunder with every step. “You’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” 

You take the helmet from his hand, but he doesn't let go right away, making your fingers brush against his in a way that sends a shiver up your arm. You meet his gaze, the smirk on his lips matching the dangerous glint in his eyes.

He drops his hand down to the bike’s handle, jerking his head back to the empty space behind him. “Hop on.”

You straddle the bike, the leather seat warm from the rumbling engine beneath you. You give Logan your address as you slip the helmet on. His body is warm and solid against your front, you can’t help but press a little closer, your hands falling to rest on his waist. The leather of his jacket is smooth under your fingertips.

Logan turns his head to the side, the street lights shine along the side of his face in a warm yellow glow. “Hang on,” he says, voice barely audible over the roar of the bike’s engine starting up.

The sudden rush of wind as he pulls off paired with the thrillingly intense vibration of the engine revving under you is exhilarating. You wrap your arms tight around his waist, fingers digging in slightly as you lean into the curve of his body. 

The city blurs into a whirlwind of colorful lights as Logan navigates the streets with a confident ease. The cool night air whips past you, every turn and acceleration pumping more adrenaline through your veins. You cling to Logan’s waist like it’s a lifeline– there’s a sense of freedom and excitement that comes with being on the bike, but you think the real thrill is being pressed against him like this, feeling the power of his strength under you.

The ride seems like it takes both hours and seconds all at once when Logan pulls up to your house's gate. He kills the engine, the sudden silence a stark contrast from the roaring bike. Your heart pounds in your chest, pulse thumping as you slide the helmet off.

Logan takes it from your hands, eyes scanning over your house. “Nice place,” he comments casually, swinging his leg over the bike to stand next to you. 

"Thanks," you say, your voice a tad breathless. You can’t help but feel a little self-conscious as you dig for your keys in your bag, nerves finally starting to set in. The air is cold against your flushed skin, and you’re hyper aware of Logan’s presence behind you as you unlock the gate and push it open.

He doesn’t touch you as the two of you walk up the steps to your house, infuriatingly keeping his distance with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

Your legs shake with every step, you can’t tell if it’s left over adrenaline from the ride or the building anticipation for the ride you know is waiting for you beyond your front door. Your hands tremble as you fumble with the lock, opening the door and stepping into the darkness of your living room. 

You’re barely a foot inside before a pair of strong hands pull you backwards, getting whirled around by your waist until your back hits your closed front door mute thud. You don’t have any time to react before Logan’s crowding up against you, his body a solid wall of muscle pressing you hard against the door. His lips crash into yours in a hungry kiss, you can taste the whiskey from earlier sharp and smoky on his tongue.

You respond eagerly, leaning up to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down even closer. Logan’s hands roam over your body rough and possessive, one sliding up to cup the back of your neck while the other grips your waist, pulling you even closer. His hands leave a trail of fire in their wake, your skin tingling with every brush of his fingers. You can feel the raw power in his touch, a barely there restrained strength that has your heart racing even faster. 

“I could fucking smell you,” he growls agasint your neck, digging his sharp teeth into your collarbone meanly. You can't help but let out a soft moan, your head falling back against the door to give him better access. The rough stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Could smell how goddamn wet you got, back at the bar.”

His hand slips under the waistband of your jeans, sliding down the front of your panties to brush against your clit. Your mouth drops open with a soft moan, your slick lips still tingling. “Do you have any fuckin’ idea how hard it was not to bend you over, to not rip these things off and fuck you over the bar?” he asks roughly, lips brushing against your skin with every word. “Wanted to take you right, make everyone watch while I made you scream.”

Your breath hitches at his words, a wave of pleasure crashing through you. The rough skin of his fingertips press more firmly against your clit, drawing a broken moan from your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily against his hand.Your hands claw at his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as you try to ground yourself. 

His lips capture yours again in a bruising kiss, sliding two thick fingers into you with a rough thrust. “Atta girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, dragging his tongue across your bottom slip. “That’s it, say my name,” he growls, swallowing your moans as his fingers pump into you with an unrelenting pace. Your walls clench around him, a needy whine escaping your throat as he begins to fuck his fingers in and out of your wet cunt. 

The coil of pleasure deep in your stomach tightens with every thrust of his fingers, your body trembling with the intensity of it all. You can feel the pressure start to build, like a dam threatening to burst, but this isn’t how you want to come. You break the kiss, a thin thread of saliva connecting your lips before it thins and breaks. “Wait,” you say breathlessly, hand slipping down to grip his forearm tightly, “I want to come with you inside me.”

Logan growls, a deep, primal sound that you can feel rumble deep in his chest where it’s pressed against yours. “Bedroom,” he demands, hands dropping to the back of your thighs and lifting. 

You wrap your legs around his waist with a quiet squeal, attacking the skin of his neck with your teeth as he walks the two of you down the dark hallway. “First door on the right,” you whisper, dragging your tongue along the column of his throat. You can feel the thick length of his cock straining against his jeans press into your hip. He sucks in a sharp breath as you roll your hips down, sliding the damp fabric of your clothed cunt over him.

Logan kicks the door open with a force that has it slamming against the wall, the sound barely registering in your lust-addled brain. Logan dumps you on the bed, the force of it bouncing you on the mattress. He rips his white undershirt over his head and drops to his knees in front of you, big hands coming up to grip the waistband of your jeans.

The muscles in his arms don’t even flex as he rips your shorts down the middle, denim and along with lace panties tearing like tissue paper in his hands and falling to the floor in tattered pieces. You gasp at the cold air hitting your hot, aching cunt. 

Logan’s hands run up and down the bare skin of your calves, eyes glued to the soaked skin of your inner thighs. Your thighs start to tremble under his gaze, your patience starting to wear thin. Logan drags his eyes back to you, taking in the pleading look on your face. He smirks, wordlessly rising to his feet to pop open the button of his jeans.

You watch with bated breath as he unzips his fly, eyes glued to the way he starts to push them down his legs just enough that they fall to pool around his ankles. Your mouth drops open, eyes going wide at the sight of him.

He’s so big, so thick and heavy that his cock hangs hard between his hairy thighs instead of slapping up against his stomach. There’s a thick drop of pre-cum leaking from the tip, dripping down a thick vein running along the side.

Your mouth waters with want, the want to bury your nose in the dark thatch of hair surrounding the base, the want to have him fuck your throat raw and red. You can almost feel the ache in your jaw. 

As much as you want to get him in your mouth, you want him inside you even more.

“Get your ass over here,” you demand breathlessly, tearing your shirt off your head in one swift motion. Logan smirks, stepping out of his jeans and making his way across the room. His dog tags jingle with every step, your cunt clenches weakly.

He stalks up the mattress like a predator, eyes ablaze as a cocky smirk plays on his lips. Your legs fall open unconsciously, thighs spreading wide to make enough room for his hips to slot against yours.

You gasp at the thick head of his cock sliding through your wet folds, your body arching off the bed. The sensation is electric, shooting through you like a live wire. "Logan," you breathe, your voice barely more than a whimper. "Please..."

"Please what?" he asks, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. "You gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart."

Your cheeks flush hot, but the need burning inside you is stronger than any embarrassment. "I want you," you admit, your voice trembling with desire. "I want you to fuck me, Logan."

His growl is low and feral, his fingers teasing you relentlessly as he presses his forehead to yours. "That's a good girl," he rumbles, his breath hot against your lips as he sinks into the tight heat of your cunt in a single thrust. 

The pace he sets is unrelenting, one hand braced on the pillow next to your head while the other grips your bed’s frame for better leverage to fuck down into you. The sting of his cock splitting your cunt open has your nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. His dog tags hang from his neck, swinging like a pendulum as he starts to thrust.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grates out, brows furrowed in pleasure. His hips speed up, barely pulling out halfway before he plunges back into you. The bed squeaks under you, slamming up against the wall as Logan fucks you.

It’s like Logan surrounds every inch of you, strong arms caged around your head while his body covers yours, metal bonded bones pressing you down into the mattress so there’s nothing you can do but take it. You know that he’s ruined every other man in the world for you as the heavy snap of his hips pounds against the skin of your ass hard enough to bruise. The thick muscles of chest bounces as he moves, the coarse hair scraping against your sensitive nipples.

The head of his cock pounds the soft spot inside of you that has your eyes fluttering closed, mind going hazy as heat starts to pool at the base of your spine.

“Don’t fucking stop,” you beg brokenly, tears sting the corners of your eyes. “God! I’m gonna come, you’re gonna make me come–”

“Come on baby,” Logan goads, dropping down to his fore arm so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck, “Give it to me, come on this cock, show me how much you fucking love it,”

The stinging bite of his sharp canines scraping the fluttering pulse of your neck makes you wail, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave long red welts that heal as you go. Your cunt clenches around the pulsing length of his cock, greedily milking him as you come in a rush of wetness around his cock.

“Fuck,” Logan grits out, his hips faltering. It’s not by much, but just enough for you to notice. The rhythmic smack smack smack of skin stuttering as his breath comes out in fast pants against the sweaty skin of your neck. His cock jerks inside you fiercely, his heavy balls tightening as he gets closer to the edge. You can hear the metal frame of your bed creaking warningly under his grip.

“Come in me,” you beg breathlessly, tightening your ankles around his waist. “Please, Logan I need it–”

Logan lets out a feral growl as his hand drops from your headboard, the sharp metallic sound of his claws unsheathing rings out above you before he slams his fist into the mattress next to your head. He floods your insides, pumping you full of his come as he grunts like a beast on top of you. He gives a few more weak thrusts of his hips, letting the two of you ride out your highs before he finally stills.

You hear the quiet snikt of his claws retracting from your mattress and back into between his knuckles before Logan collapses on top of you, arms braced on either side of your head to take most of his weight. His breath puffs raggedly over the skin of your shoulder, his spent cock still snug in your sore cunt. 

“You owe me a new mattress,” you say breathlessly, digging the heels of your feet into his lower back sharply. 

Logan chuckles into your neck, tipping his head up to look at you with dark eyes. His lips curl into a smirk as he rolls his hips, his still hard cock dragging along the sensitive walls of your cunt makes you gasp. “Yeah?” he asks, low and velvety. His eyes flick to the three holes punched through your sheets.

“You can add it to my tab,” he says with another stronger roll of his hips, “We’re not done here.”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

a/n! the actual biggest shout out to @ebodebo for beta reading and listening to my non-stop rambling and horny thoughts about this man. she's a true solider because i have been so annoying about this. mwah mwah mwah.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Ghost Eater

Summary: You don't like exorcists. They don't much like you either.

-----

You’d always thought big restaurants like the Brownie Industry only did well in small, midwestern towns like the one you came from. A year working in LA has taught you that, no matter where you go, people will always love garlic bread and sugar.

It’s your day off which means you’re pulling a double shift. You haven’t had time to wash your hair for the past two weeks so it’s frizzing out of your claw clip and flying wild around your face. The lighting is so dim that you’ve tripped over two black purses already, luckily not while you’re running food. The big dining room sounds like an apiary with the tittering laughter of the later adult crowd that’s filtered in from the theater across the four lane road. The main difference between the Brownie Industry here and the one back home is size. The ceiling soars overhead, supported by a series of concrete pillars separating the dining area into three sections.

Normally it would be three servers per section. Today, it’s just you in yours.

One more hour. That’s what the manager promised you. It might even be true if the host stand quits seating you after the table you’re approaching.

There are three people at the table. A woman whose hair might be light blonde or gray in the light of day, her eyes light and piercing. Her face is soft from age, emphasized by the tight, lace collar of her off-season sweater. She reminds you strongly of your mom’s nemesis on the HOA board. The man couldn’t be more out of place next to her despite their equivalent age. He’s wearing a leather jacket – again, it’s not cold here – and a Norwegian metal shirt underneath. His hair is definitely white, so white it almost glows. He’s frowning at the teenager across the table as if she’s touched his motorcycle without permission.

The teenager might be the first you’ve seen all night who doesn’t have their phone out. She’s decked out in what you consider grandma florals – a t-shirt scattered with daisy chains, a bucket hat made out of nana’s carpet bag, and a hand-crocheted scarf in pastel.  You can’t really see her face under the shadow of her hat and there’s an odd, blurred quality to the way she fiddles with her napkin. You let your eyes skip past her and back to the two adults. Teenagers don’t pay the bill.

“Welcome to Brownie Industry!” you chirp. You’re sweaty and red but the faded yellow light hides that. You’re a service industry pro so none of your exhaustion shows on your face when you ask, “Is this your first-time dining with us?”

If you weren’t so burned out, you’d have noticed before you introduced yourself.

“Are you Grady?” the woman asks. Her voice is more posh than you expected even with her lace collar. “Grady Pace?”

Fuck. There’s a noticeable temperature differential now that you’re close to them. The restaurant is warm from the number of bodies, maybe even warmer than the summer air outside, but stepping up next to their table feels like walking into an ice rink.

“I’m your waitress,” you say. You don’t have time for this conversation. You’ve got five minutes in your cycle to take their order and then you’ve got food to run. “If you need any other services from me, I have a website.”

“We messaged you,” the man says. His lips thin to the point his thick mustache covers them entirely. “You never responded.”

Because you’ve been making more money at the Brownie Industry than your other job. “I’ll take a look at it tonight.”

“Wait,” the teenager says, sitting upright. She looks from you to the adults and back again. When she smiles, there’s no humor in it. “This is why we drove eight hours to have dinner at the Brownie Industry? For her?”

“Katie, be polite—”

“I’m sorry,” Katie says, “It’s just—I found a priest, you know? An actual exorcist priest and you guys want to trust a waitress over him?”

“Ugh exorcists,” you say. The memory of sour cabbage is so heavy on your tongue that you stick your tongue out in disgust. When you see Katie’s look, you backtrack. “Effective! Definitely effective.”

“Your mistakes have cost us too much already,” the man says, shaking a finger at her. “We are not converting just for an exorcism.”

“I normally don’t agree with your father,” the woman tells Katie, “but in this case I would like to leave conversion as a last resort.”

“We wouldn’t actually convert,” Katie says, rolling her eyes.

“Pretty sure exorcists can tell when you lie,” you tell Katie. When her scowl deepens, you clear your throat. “Did you all need another minute to think about the menu?”

“We need you to help us,” the dad says. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, I know you’re at work and I’m sorry we’re bothering you.”

“We’re desperate,” the mom says. She reaches for her purse. “We’ll pay you. Triple the rate on your website or even quadruple. We need that thing gone by tonight.”

Katie covers her face. “Mom. You’re embarrassing me. Terry isn’t that bad.”

“Oh, he’s bad, young lady,” the dad says sternly. “A bad influence.”

“We caught her trying to perform another séance yesterday,” the mom confesses to you. She leans forward with a pinched expression. “So Terry’s friend Larry could visit too.”

“Interesting,” you say. The food bell rings, but you think you can ignore it for another minute. You study Katie’s blush. “Why did you do that?”

If she was being compelled, she won’t have an answer to your question. You’ve dealt with a lot of ghosts in your time, but so few are sentient enough – or powerful enough – for compulsion.

“Go on,” the dad says, gesturing at you. “Tell her.”

“Leroy, she’s embarrassed enough,” the mom says.

“No, she’s not, Sarah.” The dad – Leroy – gestures to you again. “Tell her.”

Katie huffs, clearly resistant. But when her dad huffs back, she caves. “So,” she says, “I have this YouTube channel—”

“I’m off in an hour,” you interrupt. You don’t care that you’re being rude. Your patience ran out as soon as she said YouTube. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” You turn to go.

“A moment!” Sarah shakes out her menu. “How’s the nicoise salad?”

Of course they’re going to order. They’d better tip too if they want you to help them with their ghost problem.

----.

“You said an hour,” mom Sarah says when you leave out the employee entrance. She’s shivering next to her daughter. Leroy is off smoking behind his motorcycle, parked next to the Tesla Katie is leaning on, but he stubs out his cigarette on the asphalt when you walk up. “It’s been two.”

“I had side work,” you say instead of it would have been one if not for you. You rub your bare arms when the familiar ghost chill washes over you. You want nothing more than to go home and wash the scent of garlic and brownie batter out of your hair. “Was there something wrong with my service?”

“No?”

You try to make your voice light. “I see.”

Sarah frowns at your tone anyway. “Why?”

“You tipped five dollars.”

Katie jolts like a scalded cat. “Mom!”

Leroy scrubs a hand over his face. “Sarah…”

“What?” Sarah throws up her hands. The parking lot lights catch on her Swarovski charm bracelet. “I tipped!”

“Like ten percent,” Katie says. She pulls her bucket hat over her eyes for a beat and then peeks at you from under it. “I’m so sorry. It’s not you, she’s always like this.”

“It was actually a six percent tip,” you say. You’re getting a clearer picture of this little family now. It’s becoming more and more understandable why Katie might have started summoning ghosts. “If you want to be precise.”

Leroy reaches for his back pocket. “Let me.”

Sarah swats at his hand. “We’re about to pay her a lot more than that!”

“For a completely separate job,” Leroy says. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and hands it to you with a grimace. “Sorry, Grady, I should’ve checked.”

“You should’ve paid if you cared so much,” Sarah retorts. She folds her arms over her chest. She taps her cheek and widens her eyes. “Oh wait… you never pay.”

“Sure,” Leroy says. This time it’s his turn to throw his hands in the air. “Sure, Sarah. I don’t pay for anything to do with our daughter’s private school or her dance classes or her health insurance—”

“If the court hadn’t mandated—”

“You make twice as much as me—"

“Guys!” Katie says loudly. Her mouth is a thin line of upset when she says, “Argue about what an expensive burden I am later when we don’t have an audience, okay?”

Her parents speak at the same time.

“You’re twisting my words,” Sarah says. “I never said—"

“Sweetie, you’re not a burden—”

“Can you just get this ghost out of me?” Katie asks you. She goes for nonchalance and falls short. “My parents haven’t been in the same room for the last five years for a reason.” She fakes whispering. “They don’t play nicely with others.”

Sarah bristles. “Katie.”

“God, I know how that is,” you say. The whole interaction is giving you the worst case of sympathy for Katie. Before her parents can say anything else, you change the subject. “How long have you been haunted?”

“Six months,” Katie says. She fiddles with her bucket hat so that you can see her eyes for the first time. They’re brown, like her dad’s, and have heavy bruises underneath. She shrugs. “They only noticed a month ago though.”

“I noticed your behavior had changed,” Sarah defends. Like her daughter, she fidgets. She plays with her bracelet and clears her throat. “I thought it was a teenage thing.”

“What signs did you notice first?” you ask the parents. They glance at each other and then away.

“Let’s just say we noticed different things,” Leroy says dryly. He pulls out his phone.

“Moodiness,” Sarah says. She ticks them off on her fingers. “Laziness. Disrespect. Over-sleeping.”

“Those are just teenager things,” Katie says with an astounding level of self awareness. She shrugs. “I’m a senior now. They’re lucky it didn’t start sooner.”

“I,” Leroy says, “noticed this.” He turns his phone towards you.

“Ah,” Sarah says, “Yes. That.”

You examine the picture. It’s of Katie on a small dirt bike. She’s wearing a helmet in the picture, but you recognize the fashion sense in the floral boots she’s wearing. The scene behind her is of the hills, low scrub brush recognizable to someone who’s lived in LA for the past five years. On the bike behind her is a smudge. It could be a cloud of dirt blown into frame or maybe a camera glitch. It could be if it weren’t for the leering face emerging from the cloud right behind her head.

“I just want to say I did not agree to getting her a motorcycle,” Sarah says.

“Mom, not the point,” Katie says.

“Look how close that creep is to my daughter,” Leroy says. He jabs a finger at Katie’s waist in the photo where you can see a ghostly hand. “I want him gone.”

“Dad, he didn’t mean anything by it!” Katie turns to you earnestly. “Terry never rode a bike before and I thought, like, what if he moved on after he got a chance to? It was a philanthropic effort!”

“Plant a tree if you want to be a philanthropist,” Leroy growls. “I want this guy away from my daughter.”

“He doesn’t mean any harm really,” Katie says. “He would move on if he could! He says he’s stuck to me because of how I summoned him. He’s like, really sorry. He even spelled out Sorry in the bathroom mirror once.”

“What,” Sarah says in a dangerous voice, “was Terry doing in the bathroom with you, Katie?”

Katie splutters. “Mom, don’t be gross!”

The family descends into bickering. You have heard about ghosts being stuck to a person before, but usually that’s when the person has some sort of psychic powers. Katie’s wearing crystal in her ears, but they aren’t charged. She might develop some talent later in life, but right now she’s a normal girl.

The parking lost is nearly empty now. You recognize a few employee cars, but very few customers. The kitchen will be cleaning for another half hour before they’re ready to go home.  The reality is that, if Terry is stuck, you might not be the best way to handle the situation. If he’s not…

Well.

It’s time to talk to Terry.

Opening your ghost sense is hard to describe. Some psychics liken it to a third eye, right in the middle of their forehead. You’ve always thought that sounded really cool like maybe the world gets cast in a blue hue when they do it and the dead appear like they do in movies. You’ve met other psychics who say it’s like a sixth sense. They know where the ghost is and it’s like they download all that information until their minds can just sort of conjure their image.

For you, it’s like letting your body remember it has a second mouth. Cats have an extra sensory organ on the roof of their mouth that lets them detect scents better. Your second mouth is a bit like that. You can still smell brownies and garlic and the city air of LA, but you can also smell/taste something else.

Something like…pepper?

Your eyes water and you sneeze so viciously that your eyes close. When you open them again, four people are staring at you in surprise.

“Gesundheit,” Leroy says.

“You sneeze like Dad does,” Katie says.

“Did no one ever teach you to cover your mouth?” Sarah asks in disgust.

“I wish you would’ve sneezed on her,” Terry says, nodding to Sarah. “She’s such a bitch.”

“Thank you for the commentary, everyone,” you say. You wipe your nose with the collar of your shirt as you consider Terry. It’s dirty anyway. “Terry. Interesting name for a ghost.”

Terry hasn’t noticed that you can see him yet. He’s floating behind Katie, one arm casually flung over her shoulder. It’s hard to place when he died based on his appearance alone. His hair is chin length, emphasizing the width of his jaw. Squire cuts have been popular for several decades and the bowling shirt he’s wearing could either be a modern fashion statement or a dated uniform. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, sun-kissed and with the air of someone who tells a lot of jokes at the expense of others. His arm around Katie strikes you as possessive, the glare he gives her parents venomous.

“I didn’t name him,” Katie says. “He said it’s short of Torrance.”

You blink. “Wouldn’t he be Torri then?”

“That’s a girl’s name,” Katie and Terry say at the same time. Their cadence is so close that it actually sounds like Terry’s baritone comes out of Katie’s mouth. For a moment, his arm flickers, clipping into her shoulder like a bad animation. When it does, Terry’s form grows brighter, more solid. Then Katie shivers and he’s forced out of her.

You and Terry click your tongues at the same time.

You remember how Katie’s hands seemed to blur at the dinner table. Terry’s not just haunting Katie. He’s trying to possess her. You wonder if that’s why Katie looked up an exorcist rather than a simple spiritual cleansing. Did she know how much danger she was in?

“Okay,” you say. You tear your attention away from Katie and Terry for a moment. Business first. “Sarah. Leroy. Who was it that found my site?”

“I did,” Sarah says. She raises her chin when you can’t hide your surprise. “When Katie was looking up exorcists—”

“She didn’t mean it,” Terry says. He pats Katie’s hat. “Right?”

“—I looked up alternative solutions,” Sarah says, not having heard Terry. Her confidence falters for a moment and she rubs her arm. “I have had some… negative experiences with exorcisms. I don’t want my daughter to go through that.”

Katie’s head whips towards her mother. “What? I didn’t know that.”

“It was a long time ago,” Leroy says. For the first time, he reaches out and hugs Sarah with one arm. You don’t know what surprises you more; Leroy hugging Sarah or Sarah leaning into his side. “When Sarah told me, we decided to put our differences aside. I vetted you through some of my contacts and they all agreed you’d be a safe bet.”

“I am,” you say. You’re not bragging either. You’re probably the safest bet in half the western states besides your older sister. “There are some…peculiarities in my method.”

“Charlatan,” Terry whispers in Katie’s ear. He’s grinning now. “Only charlatans are that confident. Look! She can’t even see me!”

Katie looks doubtful.

Usually, you’d try to talk to Terry at this point. Sometimes spirits can be negotiated with. They can be encouraged to move on or to take on a less aggressive form of haunting. Those that are truly stuck can be helped with the right sort of ritual work. But the way Terry’s affecting Katie’s mood and that fucking arm around her shoulders…

You don’t really want to talk to Terry.

“We can ask Terry to move on,” you tell the family.

“Nooooooo,” Terry says and flips you off. “Pass!”

“Sometimes spirits don’t realize how deeply they’re affecting their hosts,” you say.

“You don’t even know how deep I’m about to be,” Terry jeers at you.

“Many ghosts are confused when they’re called to interact with the living,” you say. “It can blur their understanding of death and, as a result, they cling to life. If they stick around long enough, their presence will affect the living like what’s happening to Katie. It’s not always malicious. It can be a symptom of that confusion.”

“Katie, tell her to piss off,” Terry hisses in the teen’s ear. “I’m not confused, I’m bored.” His voice deepens. “Tell her we don’t need her help. Tell her we’re going home.”

Katie opens her mouth robotically. “That’s…” Her brow creases as she tries to figure out what she was going to say. “It seems like we don’t need help then. Terry will move on when he’s ready, like I thought.”

“We aren’t paying you for a ghost therapy session,” Sarah snaps. It’s only because you’re really focusing that you can see the unease under her anger. She’s noticed something wrong with Katie. “Katie, Terry is going away today.”

“Fuck you,” Terry says.

“Fuck you,” Katie says.

Leroy’s head rears back. “Katie, you don’t use that language with your mother!”

“Fuck you too,” Katie and Terry say. The parking lot lights flicker.

“No, fuck you, Terry,” you say, stepping between Katie and her parents. Leroy starts like he’s going to pull you out of the way, but he doesn’t.

“Terry?” Leroy asks. He looks scared. “Terry said that? Is Terry possessing my daughter?”

“Not yet.” You eye Terry’s arm and the way his fingers are sinking into Katie’s arm.

“Oh fuck,” Terry says. He doesn’t look scared. Not yet. Instead, he grins. “You can see me.”

“Not every ghost is malicious,” you tell the parents without taking your eyes off Terry. “But some are.”

“I’m not malicious.” Terry runs a hand through his hair, still grinning. The parking lot lights flicker overhead again. “I care about Katie a lot.”

“Terry’s never hurt me,” Katie says.

You ignore her. She’s not even shaking Terry off now. Her gaze is dull on your face when you say, “I don’t mean to sound like I’m some sort of ghost therapist. However, it’s important to differentiate between malicious and non-malicious hauntings in my practice. My methods are unconventional and, if used indiscriminately, I can get in a lot of trouble.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Leroy says. He steps into your periphery. His gaze flicks from you to the spot you’re staring at over Katie’s shoulder. “We want Terry gone.”

“Not a soul,” Sarah promises. She comes up on your other side. “Please help our daughter.”

“Terry,” you say. Your second mouth is yawning wide somewhere in the back of your brain. The taste of pepper isn’t as overwhelming now. “Last chance. Renounce your claim on Katie’s soul and slither back into whatever hole you came out of.”

“We’re soulmates,” Terry says. He bares his teeth at you. “Go on, Charlatan. Call on your God to banish me. I’ve been around for decades and no exorcist has ever been able to put a scratch on me. And when they manage to push me out?” He laughs and the temperature drops another ten degrees. An unholy light flickers in his eyes. “I just come right back.”

“Then I guess I won’t feel guilty,” you say.

“Guilty?” Katie asks.

You walk forward two steps and grab Terry’s face. Terry’s skin is soft and jelly-like. His facial bones undulate like rubber under your grip. “Hi, Terry.”

Now Terry’s afraid. “What the fuck, you can touch—?”

“Bye, Terry.” You drag him towards you. His fingers pop out of Katie’s arm with a wet sucking sound, and he claws at your wrist.

“Wait! Waitwaitwaitwait--”

You eat Terry.

People come from all around to eat at the Brownie Industry. They love the density of the desserts and the heaps of garlic spread over home-baked (shipped frozen) rolls. It’s a treat to know you’re always going to enjoy the meal even if you’re far from home or eating at the same location a hundred times. It’s consistency, sugar and butter. An easy addiction to have.

Eating ghosts is like that for you. They fizz in your second mouth like champagne and melt like fudge. It’s hard to describe and the ephemeral quality of it sends shivers down your spine. Somewhere Terry is screaming in anguish, maybe crying. You think that the family you’re helping is screaming something too, but the sensation of eating is so consuming you can’t hear the words.

Terry is younger than other ghosts you’ve eaten. He doesn’t have the depth of flavor you’d once been addicted to back in Illinois. The best ghost you’ve ever eaten had been like a six-course meal with all the centuries she’d been carrying. In comparison, Terry is like a bag of pepper chips. Interesting, but gone in a moment. Still, he hits the spot.

When you’re done, you burp a purple cloud of ectoplasm into the still night air.

Leroy is the first to speak. His eyes are so wide you can see the whites all around them. “Pay her, Sarah,” he says breathlessly. His hands shake as he reaches for Katie, steadying her on her feet. “Now.”

You smack your lips and graciously accept the wad of cash Sarah hands you. You raise your eyebrows. “This is more than three times my rate.”

“Consider it a tip,” Sarah says. She’s more composed than Leroy, but still pale. She studies you. “That was…revolting.”

“You didn’t have to watch,” you say. You put your money away and then perk up at a sudden thought. “Hey, if you can, can you leave me a review on my site?”

“I thought you didn’t want us to tell anyone?”

You wave your hand. “Secrets are bad for business. Besides, Terry deserved it. I’m sure they’ll understand if you write that in your review.”

“They…?”

You smile and don’t answer.

The family don’t ask many more questions after that. The parents promise to leave a review and Katie just stares at you as if concussed. You assure the parents that she’ll be back to normal as soon as the soul-shock wears off. 

“And if it doesn’t?” Sarah asks.

“Message me,” you say.

“You don’t check your messages,” Leroy says.

“Oh,” you say, patting your stomach, “I’ll be checking them a lot more often now.”

You’re hungry again.

---

(Patreon)

[mynameisjag]

For @ace-in-disgrace and their prompt: Danny gets mistaken as the love child of the disasters known as Wolverine and Deadpool.

Okay, it was not Danny's fault, he swears!

He was just experimenting with his ice, playing around with some of the younger yetis in the Far Frozen for fun. So shaping his ice to cover his hands to copy the paws of the others and seeing how well he could cut through solid hard frozen ice was just a game. The rough housing was to be expected, everyone tossing each other to see how far they could be thrown was fun.

Being picked up and tossed at the right exact moment a portal opened up was not fun or expected and he blamed Clockwork. The entity had to be responsible somehow for him not being able to enjoy a day of hanging out with Frostbite and the others.

Landing right in the middle of a what looked like a swat happening in an abandoned warehouse, armored people instantly aiming their rifles at him as he stood up wasn’t even surprising given his luck.

Fair though, he was currently looking more on the feral side to match his playmates then his normal ghost form.

“Hey, what’s with hostility? Can’t someone just pop in somewhere without-“, and he was shot in the shoulder, cutting his sentence off, “rude.”

It was just a regular bullet, so it was easy for his form to just…push it out and heal the hole up.

One of the men reached up to touch a device attached on his ear, ��Unknown possible mutant has breached the facilities, age around 12-15, regeneration showed, animal like features-“

“You know it’s really rude to talk about someone like that to their face, no manners at all.”

“Unfortunately satirical.”

There was a crash from above as red and yellow forms busted through the glass, the guns swinging their aim at the two men landed.

“Sassiness is always welcomed!”, the red man had his own guns out and was already firing as he talked.

Danny had decided to dodge over to a pile of crates as all the attention was on the new intruders, eyes wide as an arc blood barely missed him as the one in yellow unsheathed long blades from his knuckles.

He glanced at his own hands, he couldn’t make a working gun from ice but…concentrating…he slowly watched as ice built up into copies, looking very much like it was growing from his skin.

An armored body was flung his way and he instinctual reacted…there were now two halves of a one man and he was covered in the viscera.

He froze…did he…oh…oh no…he had to go, he had to go now.

“Ope, looks like someone's first kill! Look at you Jack Frost,” the red guy with guns was now standing above him on a bigger crate, waving down at the teen, “awe, tiny puppy claws!”

Danny took a swing at the crate, watching as it collapsed and the man fell, laughing the entire time he went down.

He quickly turned to run, only to run into a wide chest where he promptly bounced off and landed ass first on the floor, “What in the-I have literally ran into steel walls softer then you.”

Claw man snorted as he reached down and picked Danny up by the scruff, “You alright kid?”

Said kid just hissed at him.

Claws was chuckling, “Cute, now put back your claws, I think it’s time for a chat.”

“Is it finally our turn for the found family and misunderstandings trope,” the red man was back and had swaggered up to the other two, an arm being thrown over his partners shoulders, “Hi, there and welcome, I’m Deadpool and this is Wolverine and we’re your new dads.”

“No.”

“No?”

Danny smiled, all sharp teeth, “No,” and promptly went invisible and intangible, escaping out of the warehouse while he could, leaving the other two behind.

He had to find a portal home.

Wade went limp, using Logan as a brace, “But I wanted to pull a ‘Batman’…”

The response was a snort and Wolverine sniffing his own hand, growling as he took the child’s scent in, “Don’t know what your talking about but, I can track him down, we probably need to before more of these fucks show up and get their hands on him.”

Hope you enjoyed it!

[marvelousmrm]

Invincible Iron Man #77 (Friedrich/Jones, Aug 1975). Issue #76 was a reprint so we skip ahead a month… After MODOK, the Mad Thinker, and Yellow Claw are done whacking each other, Firebrand sneaks in to take another potshot at Shellhead. The Black Lama proclaims Firebrand the winner of his dumb contest, and now everyone’s heading to an alternate universe.

[trumanbluee]

you're the one that i want - deadpool / wade wilson

minors dni !! this is 17+ nsfw material !!!

please reblog if you like it! ᡣ𐭩

based on this request! <3

content: three words, baby! the honda odyssey!

word count: 2.5k

warnings: established relationship, no mention of condom (wrap it b4 u tap it!), petnames galore, deadpool is a warning in of himself lol.

a/n: the deadpool brainrot has been so strong recently so thank u guys so much for all ur requests! my return to my deadpool era couldn't have come at a worse time with my exams happening rn but i will try and write as much as i can! love you!

You'd been sitting in the backseat of the "fuck-ass Honda Odyssey", as Wade had described it, arm resting on the centre console, your head propped up on your palm lamely as you turn it left to right, half-listening to Wade and Logan argue like you're at a tennis match.

You'd almost flown forward into the front of the car when it came to an abrupt stop, tyres screeching as you let out a soft yelp in surprise. Wade hears you, and wordlessly pushes you back softly. You'd heard something spat out from Logan, along the lines of "You'll never save the fucking world!", followed by Wade's voice saying, "I'm gonna fight you now." and then the sound of a sickening crunch as he punches Logan in the nose.

It's milliseconds before you see your boyfriend's arm reach back and open your door, gently ushering you out with a soft, "Why don't you go for a walk, pretty girl?"

You know better than to argue, especially with Logan seething in the front seat, so you hop out of the car, shutting the door behind you as you trudge off into the trees, half grateful for being kicked out of the car so you didn't have to listen to Logan's grumbles when you inevitably had to ask him to pull over so you could pee.

You could hear the yelling and grunting in the distance, shaking your head as you hear the faint shatter of glass, followed by a - less than masculine - squeal from your boyfriend. You laughed to yourself, not worried in the slightest as you hear the fighting between the two, Logan's growls echoing through the trees as he squelches his claws into your boyfriend's stomach.

You'd told Wade to give Logan a break, and that eventually he would find out about his 'educated wish', but he hadn't listened, instead continuing to push and push and push Logan until, expectedly, he reached his breaking point.

You wandered around amongst the trees for a while, before slumping against a tree not too far from the car, your eyes growing heavy as you listened to the soft rustle of the leaves above you.

You wake up groggily, looking around the room as you rub sleep from your eyes. You startle when a red suit appears in front of you, but it's not the Deadpool suit that you're all too familiar with.

"I'm Elektra, that's Gambit," the woman points to a man in a helmet, who's stood in the corner, playing with cards, "and that's Blade," she points over her shoulder with her thumb to the man in a long, leather trench-coat.

"I.. uhm.. Hi?" you say, taken aback by this sudden bombardment of strangers.

"We're helping you and your friends get out of the void." Elektra explains, offering her hand to help you stand up. You take it gratefully.

"...Oh, cool..." you say, still groggy from being asleep for so long. "..are.. are they around?"

Elektra nods, pointing outside with her head, "Yellow's by the fire, Red's... around here somewhere."

You nod, thanking her and smiling awkwardly at Blade and Gambit as you walk outside, the smoke from the fire consuming your nostrils as you step out. You spot Logan by the fire, but see that he's sitting with someone.

'She looks an awful lot like that X-23 girl we saw at the TVA.' you think, not ruling out the possibility that it is her with the level of weirdness that had already occurred during your short time in the void. You tread on, looking around before you spot the Honda Odyssey. You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk to the drivers door of the car, opening it to reveal your boyfriend in the back-seat, pulling his katana's out of the passenger's seat next to you as you plop into the driver's seat.

He looks up when he hears the car door open, and the white eyes of his mask visible soften as he sees you.

"Hey baby," he coos, scooching forward in the back-seat to press a soft kiss to your cheek through his mask as you sit in the driver's seat, peeking over the headrest to look back at him, "was wonderin' when you were gonna wake up, sleepy head."

You smile softly, before taking a moment to look around at the damage done to the car. Your eyes go wide and your hand flies to your mouth, the other reaching back to swat at Wade's shoulder.

"Wade! What the fuck did you two get up to in here? Jesus Christ!"

You hear a whisper of 'Baby Knife!' followed by a soft grunt as Wade pockets another one of his knives.

"Just some good ol' fashioned fightin', baby! I'm kinda sad you missed it, that shit got good!"

You tut, leaning around the driver's seat to look at him as he's hunched over, digging for another one of his knives beneath the seat.

You hear him mumble something along the lines of 'Hate this fuckin' car' before he shoots up, and you can sense his smile through the mask. He leans back in the seats that are in the very back of the car, right leg thrown over one seat, with his other leg spread, suit-clad knee pressing into the fabric of the other. His eyes sharpen as he looks at you, before groaning softly, throwing his head back in a circle, and sighing.

"Fuck, princess, that fightin's gotten me all worked up," he groans, chin pressed to the top of his chest as he looks at you, eyes narrowed.

You feel your thighs rub together at the way he looks at you, the manspreading the cherry on top of a very, very, delicious looking dessert. He chuckles, gesturing to your thighs with his head.

"Saw that, baby." He laughs to himself before he lifts his hand, beckoning you to him with two fingers, his other hand resting on the headrest of the seat in front of him, twiddling Baby Knife between his fingers.

You squirm in your seat before not so agilely climbing over the centre console, crawling over the seat and onto Wade’s lap. He pockets Baby Knife, bringing a hand up to pull the bottom of his mask up, the other settling on your ass as you straddle his waist. 

“Hey doll-face,” he murmurs, smiling and giving your ass a playful squeeze, pulling his mask fully off before placing his hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you into a kiss. 

You moan against his lips as you kiss back, his gloved hand giving your ass a firmer squeeze. Wade uses this opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips as you gasp into his mouth. Your hips grind down subconsciously and he pulls away from the kiss, both of your chests rising quickly as you both try and regain your breath from the heated kiss. 

Wade smirks up at you, moving both of his hands to your hips, squeezing softly, pulling a giggle from your lips before he’s engulfing them in another breathless kiss. He moves your hips with his hands, grinding you down on his boner as it tents in his suit, causing him to buck up absentmindedly as he groans into your mouth. Your breathy whimpers vibrate against his lips, and he pulls away, leaning his head back against the headrest behind him. 

“…Fuck, doll-face,” he groans, looking up at you, “ look what you're fuckin’ do to me, baby.” 

He nods down to his dick, almost bursting out of his suit, and your mouth nearly drops open. Wade thinks to himself that if you were in an animé, you’d have heart emojis bulging from your eyes. 

He takes his hands off your hips, crossing his arms behind his head in faux-laziness as he watches you undo the buckle of his belt, slapping the sides of his legs softly, signalling for him to lift his hips. 

“Watch it, doll-face.” Wade warns, half-joking, “Ask me nicely, please.” 

You groan, giving him your ‘are-you-fucking-serious-right-now’ glare as you tug at his belt. He’d been on the receiving end of this look many times in the past, so he’s unfazed as he chuckles dryly, planting his hips down.

 “I can wait, Princess.” 

You roll your eyes, huffing. “Please, Wade,” you glare at him, “Will you please lift your hips up so I can get your dick out?” 

You add a pout and a flutter of your lashes at the end, and his resolve noticeably crumbles. He huffs, lifting his hips up off the car seat just enough for you to pull down his pants slightly. You dip your hand into his underwear, giving his dick a soft tug before freeing it from the tight pants of his Deadpool suit. 

You gather some spit in your mouth, looking at your boyfriend through your lashes before spitting onto the tip of his cock, using your hand to spread it along his length, squeezing softly around the base. Wade groans from below you, his hips bucking into your hand.

“Fuck, hotstuff, ya’ killin’ me here.” 

Wade hisses as you squeeze a bit harder around his dick, the pretty ring he’d proposed to you with cold against his skin. 

He almost whines, stopping himself by biting his lip, “Oh, c’mon baby, what’d I do to deserve this teasin’, huh? I fought so valiantly against ol’ Wolvie, didn’t I, princess? Don’t I deserve to be treated nicely?” 

Something about the whiny-ness of his tone sends a pang to your heart, and pussy, and you grind down against his thigh absentmindedly before putting both your hands on his shoulders. 

“Help me out, would ya’, Wadey?” you ask sweetly, shimmying your hips slightly to gain his attention. 

His hands fly to your tights, tugging them down your thighs, lifting your legs softly, one by one, and peeling your pants off, leaving you hovering above him in your prettiest pair of panties. You’d been wearing them as a birthday surprise for him, but you’d both been snagged by the TVA before you could put them to good use… until now. 

Wade’s breath hitches from beneath you as his eyes land on your panties, his lower lip bitten between his teeth as his chest heaves. 

“Fuck, doll-face, what’re you all dressed up for?” he says, tracing a gloved hand over the lacy hem of your white panties, pressing a soft kiss to the little blue bow in the middle, before blowing a puff of cool air onto the damp spot beneath it. 

Your legs wobble softly and a shiver runs up your spine, leaving you grateful for your hands planted on your boyfriend's broad shoulders. 

You muster the breath to say, “They’re for you, baby… Well, they were for your birthday…”

He groans softly, pressing a soft kiss to your mound before pushing the thin fabric to the side, swiping a gloved finger through your slick. 

“Shit, baby.. Y’so wet f’me,” he says, voice breathless. “Fuck those stupid fucking day players, keeping my beautiful fiance, and her beautiful fucking panties from me on my birthday. What assholes, hey baby?” He says, pressing his thumb to your clit harshly as he blows another puff of air onto your slick pussy, causing your hips to buck into the air. 

You whine softly, bringing a hand to pump Wade’s cock once again, nodding mindlessly at his question that he knows you didn’t even hear. 

Wade chuckles, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest and shooting straight to your cunt, your thighs squeezing around his hand as he thumbs your clit lazily. 

You shuffle yourself forward on his lap, holding onto Wade’s strong shoulder with your hand, the other slowly pumping his cock as you lift yourself up, breathing hitching as you push yourself down onto the tip of Wade’s dick. 

His breath hitches beneath you, rubbing soothing circles on your hips through his gloves as you sink down onto him. His hands grip your hips tighter as he bottoms out, your eyes squeezed shut as you clamp down on his length. 

“Shit, baby, I could blow my load right now.” Wade gasps, head thrown back as his grip tightens on your hips, moving you up and down on his cock. You follow suit with his movements, digging your nails into the fabric of his suit as you leverage yourself on his shoulders, pushing yourself up and slamming yourself down on his cock, a moan slipping from your lips at every drag of his dick along your walls. 

Your hips stutter slightly, and Wade takes this as his cue, moving his hands from your hips to gain a strong grip on your ass, lifting you up and slamming his hips to meet yours. You whine softly, eyebrows knitting together and biting your lip as the soft squelch of your wetness reverberates around the car, your chest heaving with exertion, skin dewy with a thin sheen of sweat. 

You throw your head back, moaning wantonly, one hand coming off of Wade’s shoulder and pressing against the roof of the car. 

“...Shit…Wade!” you stammer as he moves one hand to your lower stomach, his thumb pressing harshly on your clit through his glove.

You slam your hips down to meet Wade's quicker, chasing your high as Wade slams his hips up to meet yours, his head thrown back against the head-rest behind him, eyes closed, as he groans softly.

"C'mon, doll-face," Wade grunts from beneath you, rubbing cruel circles on your clit as he bucks into you, "...y'gonna cum? Can feel you squeezing around me, princess."

You moan softly, babbling something like a 'uh-huh' as your eyebrows knit together, eyes shutting tight as you feel the coil building in your lower belly, threatening to snap any moment.

Wade feels you clamping around him, looking up and watching as you throw your head back, your grip on his shoulder tightening.

"That's it, baby," he groans from under you, pinching at your clit meanly causing you to whimper softly, your head coming forward, forehead resting against his as you grind down onto his cock.

"C'mon, hotstuff, give it to me..." he grunts, feeling his own orgasm coming as you clench down on him like a vice, a string of curse words sputtering from your lips as he feels you gush around him.

"...Shit, baby... Good girl," he coos, fucking you through your orgasm as he cums, soft grunts sounding in your ear as he bucks into you before stilling, stopping the movements of his thumb on your clit, as he lifts you up gently and pulls out. He pulls his hand away from your clit, but not before collecting a part of the mixture of yours and his cum on his gloved fingers, pushing it slowly back in to your drooling pussy. You whine, overstimulated, and he tuts, pushing your panties back into place and pulling your pants back up your legs, leaning back in the seat as you slump against his chest.

He smiles, giving your bum a soft pat and pressing a kiss to your hairline, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I lied, doll-face, the Honda Odyssey fucks, hard.”

©trumanbluee - reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated! but i do not wish for my work to be republished, translated, or copied. thanks!