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urdreamydoodles · 5 months ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your childhood was abusive, which caused you to have PTSD and your lover helps you through it

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Please read with caution ♡

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter had always been perceptive, but he knew better than anyone how wounds could be hidden beneath easy smiles. He saw it in the way your body tensed at raised voices, how your fingers curled too tightly into the fabric of your sleeves when a door slammed too hard. He never pressed, never pried. He just let you be, offering his presence as a quiet, unwavering shelter.

- The first time he saw you flinch—really flinch—was when he’d accidentally knocked a stack of books off his desk. The sound had sent you back to something far away, something dark. He saw it in the way your breath hitched, in the glassy sheen of your eyes. And without a word, Peter had just… sat down. Cross-legged on the floor, keeping his movements slow, his voice soft as he said, "You’re safe. Right here, right now—you’re safe."

- Patience was something Peter knew intimately, and he carried it into every touch, every kiss, every moment spent tangled in the sanctuary of his arms. He never reached for you without warning, never raised his voice in anger. The world could be loud, but Peter? Peter was a whisper, a steady heartbeat against your ear, a warm presence always willing to meet you where you needed him.

- And God help anyone who reminded you of your past. The first time someone tried to tear into your scars with cruel words, Peter had them webbed to a streetlamp before they could blink. "People like you? You’re nothing," he said, voice calm but cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth he always gave you. Because Peter would take any punch for you—but he would never let anyone hurt you again.

- At night, when nightmares curled around your throat like smoke, he would hold you through it. His lips would press against your forehead, murmuring soft reassurances, his fingers tracing absent patterns into your skin. "You don’t have to be strong right now," he would whisper. "I’ve got you. I’ll always have you."

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had seen trauma in every shape and shade, had felt it crawl beneath his own skin like a second heartbeat. But the first time he saw it in you, it wrecked him. The way you shrank at a raised voice, the way your entire body locked up at the sound of breaking glass. The realization hit him like a freight train—you hadn’t just survived something terrible. You had lived in it.

- He changed after that. Subtly, at first. No more slamming doors, no more snapping at employees. His hands stopped hovering near yours and instead waited, patient and steady, for you to reach first. His voice was softer around you, his movements slower. He was a storm everywhere else—but with you? He was the calm.

- But the world wasn’t always gentle, and Tony Stark was not a man who forgave cruelty. When someone thought it was funny to push your limits, to test your reactions, Tony didn’t even raise his voice. He just smiled—sharp, cold, terrifying. The next day, that person lost everything. Their job. Their reputation. Their place in the world. "No one touches what’s mine," he told you later, brushing a hand through your hair. "No one."

- Tony had never been one for sleep, but after learning the weight of your nightmares, he never left you alone in the dark. His arms became your haven, his heartbeat a rhythm you could anchor yourself to. And when you couldn’t speak, when the memories were too thick, he would simply pull you close and say, "It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Just breathe with me."

- You weren’t broken. He never saw you that way. You were a masterpiece with fractures, and Tony—Tony had always loved things that had lived, things that had survived. He traced his fingers over your scars like they were constellations, pressing kisses to the places that once held pain, as if rewriting history with every touch. "They don’t own you anymore," he murmured one night, lips against your temple. "Only you do. Only you ever will."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve was gentle by nature, but after he learned the truth—after he saw the weight you carried—he became something else entirely. He became careful. Every touch was preceded by a quiet "May I?", every movement slowed until he was sure you felt safe. The world had been unkind to you, but Steve Rogers would never be.

- The first time you flinched at his raised voice, he looked wrecked. He had only been arguing with Sam, nothing serious—but when he turned and saw the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your breath stuttered—his heart broke. That night, he held you without a word, just pressing soft kisses to your hair, silently promising to never let his anger touch you.

- He carried your pain like it was his own. When he saw bruises on others, when he heard whispers of children suffering at the hands of those meant to protect them—he acted. His fists never wavered when thrown in the name of justice, but when it came to you, his hands were only ever soft.

- Steve had always been a shield before a sword, and with you, that never changed. He positioned himself between you and the world’s cruelty, standing firm against anything—or anyone—who thought they had the right to hurt you. "No more," he told you one evening, his blue eyes burning with something fierce, something unyielding. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m here."

- He became your home. Not just in the way he held you, but in the way he stayed. When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when you couldn’t find the words for what hurt, Steve was simply there. His hands traced slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice a steady hum of comfort. "You’re not alone," he whispered against your skin. "You’ll never be alone again."

Thor

- Thor had never known restraint. He loved fully, existed loudly, and wielded his presence like the storm that bore him. But the first time he saw you recoil, saw the way shadows swallowed the light in your eyes at the wrong tone, the wrong movement—he stilled. For you, he would quiet the thunder.

- He learned to approach you with care, to temper his strength into something softer. "You are safe, my love," he told you often, his voice as steady as the earth beneath your feet. When others forgot, when the world was careless, Thor remembered. Every sharp sound was met with his immediate presence, his hands warm and grounding against yours.

- But the storm did not vanish—it was merely redirected. The first time someone sneered at your trauma, dismissed the things you had suffered, lightning cracked the sky. Thor did not raise his voice—he did not need to. He simply looked at them, eyes dark with a promise of wrath, and they crumbled. "You will speak no more," he commanded, and the heavens listened.

- At night, when the weight of the past crept in, Thor would wrap himself around you like an unshakable fortress. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, his lips pressing warmth into your hair. "Breathe with me, beloved," he would murmur, his heartbeat steady and unyielding against your own. "Feel the steadiness of my soul, the certainty of my love. You are here, in my arms, and I shall never let harm befall you again."

- Thor did not see you as fragile—he saw you as enduring. He did not mourn your scars, did not pity your past. Instead, he celebrated you, worshipped the strength it took to survive. "You are mighty," he whispered one night, pressing a reverent kiss to your palm. "Mightier than even I. And I shall spend every day proving to you that you are worthy of love."

Loki

- Loki was not a man who shied away from darkness. He had lived in its embrace, had let it carve itself into his soul, twisting and shifting until it was impossible to tell where the wounds ended and where he began. So when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your breath hitched when hands moved too fast, he did not ask questions. He simply understood.

- He moved differently around you—not out of pity, but out of respect. His steps were quieter, his gestures slower, his voice a low, soothing thing instead of the sharp-edged blade it usually was. He never forced you to speak of your past, never pressed when he saw the weight in your eyes. He simply let you be, allowing you to come to him when you were ready.

- But Loki was still Loki, and he was vengeful in the way he loved you. He kept a careful tally of those who mistreated you, of those who so much as sneered at the pain you had endured. And when the moment was right, when their own sins came to collect, he ensured they suffered. He never told you, never admitted the reason for his sudden, pleased smirks—but the air always smelled of satisfaction after your ghosts disappeared.

- When nightmares curled their fingers around your throat, when sleep was stolen by memories of cruelty, he was there. He would whisper to you in languages older than time, his voice an anchor in the storm. And when you couldn’t bear to be held, he would simply sit beside you, a silent sentinel against the ghosts that dared haunt you.

- "They will never touch you again," he told you once, fingers tracing slow patterns along your wrist. "You belong to no one. No gods, no mortals, no past. You are yours, and I will burn the world before I let them steal even a whisper of you."

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had never been one for loud spaces, had never been the type to fill silences just to hear himself speak. He noticed things—the way you tensed when voices rose, the way your hands clenched when something moved too fast, too sudden. He saw it all, but he never made you feel watched. Instead, he made sure you felt safe.

- He adapted without hesitation. Doors never slammed, footsteps never came without warning. When arguments brewed, he kept his voice steady, calm, even when frustration burned in his chest. He knew what it was like to grow up under a heavy hand, to flinch before the pain even came. And if he could make sure you never felt that way around him, he would.

- But God help anyone who reminded you of your past. Clint might not have been as openly vengeful as others, but he had his own ways of handling things. A carefully placed arrow, a reputation ruined in the right circles—silent, subtle, but effective. And when he returned home, when he climbed into bed beside you, he never told you what he had done. He just pulled you close, letting you rest against the steady rhythm of his heart.

- The first time he caught you in the grips of a panic attack, he didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to force you into comfort. He simply sat with you, close enough that you knew you weren’t alone, but never too close, never pushing. And when your breathing finally steadied, when the world no longer felt like it was closing in, he simply murmured, "Atta girl. I knew you’d find your way back."

- Clint wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with grand declarations—but in every action, in every careful movement, he told you what you meant to him. And when you doubted yourself, when the past clawed its way to the surface, he would only shake his head, lean in, and press a kiss to your temple. "You’re tougher than all of them," he’d whisper. "And I’ve got your back. Always."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha recognized the signs before you even knew she had noticed. The way you stiffened at the wrong tone, the way your body seemed to shrink in on itself at sudden movements. She had lived it—had felt it in every sharp order, every bruising lesson drilled into her bones. She didn’t need to ask. She just knew.

- She adjusted without hesitation. She never moved too quickly around you, never raised her voice when emotions ran high. If she was angry, she stepped away. If you were overwhelmed, she gave you space—but never too much. Just enough to breathe, just enough to know she was still there, waiting, steady.

- But when it came to those who had hurt you—those who had carved fear into your very skin—Natasha was not merciful. She did not believe in forgiveness, not for them. She was quiet in her vengeance, unseen and unknown, but when she returned, when she curled up beside you at night, there was a peace in her that hadn’t been there before. A satisfaction that told you she had made sure they would never haunt you again.

- She never pushed you to talk, never forced you to relive what had already scarred you. But when you were ready, when the words finally slipped from your lips in a trembling whisper, she listened. And when the silence stretched between you, heavy and raw, she simply reached out, tracing slow, deliberate circles against your wrist. "They don’t get to win," she said, voice steady. "You do. You already have."

- Natasha wasn’t one for flowery words or grand gestures, but she made sure you knew. Knew that you were safe, that you were hers, and that nothing—nothing—would ever touch you again. And in the quiet moments, when the past felt like a weight you couldn’t escape, she would press a kiss to your shoulder and whisper, "No one owns you anymore. No one ever will."

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew trauma. Knew it like the back of his hand, like the weight of a metal limb that wasn’t his to choose. He saw it in you, saw the way your body locked up at the wrong sounds, the wrong movements. And he didn’t just understand it—he felt it. Deep in his bones, in the echoes of his own past.

- He was careful with you in a way he hadn’t been with anyone else. His movements were always slow, deliberate. He never reached for you unless you reached first. Never raised his voice, never let frustration color his tone when he knew it would hurt more than help. He knew how it felt to be afraid of something you couldn’t control, and he would be damned if he ever became one of those things for you.

- But Bucky was not a forgiving man when it came to those who had made you this way. He didn’t rage, didn’t storm—he simply acted. No words, no threats, just quiet, methodical destruction. And when he came back, when he curled his body around yours at night, he never told you what he had done. He just kissed your hair and whispered, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when panic had its claws around your throat, Bucky didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed. He let you grip his shirt, let you shake in his arms until the storm passed. And when words finally found you, when you whispered apologies into his chest, he only shook his head and murmured, "You don’t have to say sorry. Not to me. Never to me."

- Bucky didn’t promise that the past wouldn’t hurt anymore—he knew better than that. But he did promise that you wouldn’t have to face it alone. That you would never be trapped in it again. And when the memories threatened to drown you, when the fear clawed its way back, he would hold you tighter and remind you, "You survived them. You beat them. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure they never touch you again."

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew was a man who carried his own ghosts. He understood pain, not just in theory but in the way it etched itself into bones, the way it lingered in the spaces between breaths. He didn’t need to see your wounds to know they were there—he could hear them in the tremor of your voice, feel them in the way your heartbeat stuttered when voices were raised. He never asked. He simply knew.

- He adjusted to you the way he adjusted to the city—effortlessly, instinctively. His movements became softer, more deliberate. He never reached for you without warning, never let his own temper boil over into something you might mistake for danger. Even when he was furious—when justice burned in his chest like a second heartbeat—he kept his voice steady, kept his presence calm. He refused to let anything make you feel unsafe.

- But Matt was not a man who tolerated cruelty. He had seen too much of it in his lifetime, and he would not abide it in yours. If there was anyone who still haunted you, anyone who had left scars on your soul, they would not last long in Hell’s Kitchen. The city had a way of swallowing people like that—of making them disappear in the dead of night. Matt never admitted to it, but the satisfaction in his silence told you all you needed to know.

- When nightmares clutched at you, when memories turned your breath ragged and your body rigid, Matt did not rush you. He did not drown you in empty reassurances. He simply stayed. His hands—calloused, steady—would find yours, grounding you. And when you could finally breathe again, when the world stopped spinning, he would murmur, "You’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me."

- Matthew did not offer false promises. He did not tell you that the past would stop hurting or that the fear would vanish overnight. But he did promise you this—that you were his, and no force in heaven or hell would ever harm you again. And when the city whispered threats in the dark, when shadows from your past tried to creep back in, he would remind them, in blood and bruises, that Daredevil does not forgive.

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank was not a man of gentle words. He was not soft, not delicate, but he was careful. With you, at least. The first time he saw you flinch at a raised voice, the first time you recoiled from a sudden movement, something in him snapped. He had known cruelty before, had spent his life hunting the kind of people who inflicted it. And he knew—without you ever telling him—that someone had hurt you. Badly.

- He never asked for details. Never pushed you to talk. If you wanted to tell him, you would. Until then, all he needed to know was that it would never happen again. The first time he heard the name of someone who had hurt you, he disappeared for three days. When he came back, there was blood on his knuckles and peace in his eyes. He never said a word about it, and you never asked.

- Frank wasn’t good with emotions, wasn’t good at comfort. But he was good at protecting. He noticed your triggers, memorized them like a soldier memorizes an enemy’s weakness. He never slammed doors, never moved too fast around you, never let his anger spill into something reckless. His rage was a weapon, and he wielded it with precision.

- He was your shield when you needed it, your anchor when the past threatened to pull you under. When you woke up shaking, when memories made your hands tremble, he would simply pull you into his chest, let your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. And when words failed you, when all you could do was breathe through the fear, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ you again. Not while I’m breathin’."

- Frank Castle was a monster to the world—a nightmare wrapped in flesh. But to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A force of nature that stood between you and the demons of your past. And when ghosts tried to return, when the world thought it could hurt you again, Frank reminded them, in blood and fire, that The Punisher doesn’t forgive. And he doesn’t forget.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye was not a good man. He had never been a good man, and he never pretended otherwise. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you anticipated pain before it ever came, something inside him twisted. He recognized that fear. He had been the one causing it most of his life. But he wasn’t them. He wasn’t the bastards who had hurt you. And he’d make damn sure you knew that.

- He changed for you—not in a way that made him soft, not in a way that stripped him of the sharp edges that made him him, but in a way that mattered. He learned your triggers, memorized them like a game he refused to lose. He didn’t raise his voice around you, didn’t move too fast unless he wanted you to see it coming. Control was everything to him, and he exercised it for you.

- But he was still Bullseye. Still sadistic, still twisted in the way he loved. He didn’t just hate the people who had hurt you—he hunted them. It wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about morality. It was about fun. And there was nothing more satisfying than making monsters feel like prey. He never told you what he did, but the way he smirked when he came home, the way he wiped blood off his hands with a satisfied sigh—it was enough.

- He wasn’t good at comfort, wasn’t good at softness. But when you woke up shaking, when the past crawled up your throat like poison, he didn’t mock you. He didn’t push you away. He just pulled you into his lap, let you cling to him until the tremors stopped. And when you finally looked at him, vulnerable and raw, he would grin, tilt your chin up, and say, "I don’t care how broken you think you are, sweetheart. You’re still mine. And I take care of what’s mine."

- Bullseye was chaos incarnate, a storm with no mercy. But for you, he was something else. Still dangerous, still unpredictable—but yours. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to crawl out of the shadows, they wouldn’t last long. Because Bullseye didn’t just protect what he loved—he destroyed anything that threatened it.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc was haunted long before he met you. He carried ghosts in his skin, blood on his hands. He was a man split in three, a storm constantly raging beneath the surface. But when he saw the fear in your eyes, the way you recoiled from sudden movement, something inside him settled. He knew pain when he saw it. And he knew how to handle it.

- He adapted instantly. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make any sudden movements around you unless he warned you first. He made sure you always knew it was him—whispered your name before entering a room, let you see his hands before reaching for you. He knew what it was like to live on edge, to always expect the worst. He would never be a source of that for you.

- But Marc was not a merciful man. When he learned the truth—when he learned about the people who had made you this way—his entire body stilled. And then, with a terrifying calm, he asked for names. He didn’t yell. He didn’t rage. He simply disappeared that night, and when he came back, there was no more past to haunt you. Only silence. Only peace.

- He didn’t push you to talk, didn’t force you to relive the worst of it. But when the pain overwhelmed you, when you woke up gasping for breath, he was there. He would hold you if you let him, would whisper reassurances against your hair. And when you finally settled, when your breathing evened out, he would kiss your temple and murmur, "They don’t get to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here."

- Marc Spector was a man of war, a man built for violence. But with you, he was something else. He was safety. He was home. And if the world ever tried to take that from you again, it would learn—painfully, brutally—that Moon Knight does not forgive. And he does not forget.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster had spent his life among the worst of humanity. He had trained murderers, killers, people who saw life as nothing more than a transaction. He didn’t consider himself a good man—never had, never would—but when he learned about what had been done to you, something in him twisted. He had never been one for justice, but vengeance? That, he understood. That, he thrived on.

- He noticed your triggers before you ever spoke about them. The way your breath hitched when someone raised their voice, the way your body tensed at sudden movements. He wasn’t the kind of man who asked questions—he didn’t need to. Instead, he adapted. His voice never rose around you, his movements became deliberate, controlled. The world saw him as unpredictable, but around you, he was calculated. He would never be something you feared.

- He was possessive, territorial in a way that most people would find terrifying. But with you, it was different. It wasn’t just about having you—it was about protecting you. When he found out who had hurt you, they simply ceased to exist. There was no spectacle, no grand revenge plan. Just silence. Just a quiet, efficient elimination. And when he returned to you, wiping blood off his gloves, all he said was, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- Taskmaster wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But he was good at making sure you knew you were safe. When the nightmares hit, when memories turned your breath ragged, he wouldn’t drown you in reassurances. He’d simply pull you into his lap, let you press your face against his chest, his body a solid, unshakable presence against your trembling form. And when you could finally breathe again, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ what’s mine. Not ever again."

- He was a weapon, a killer, a ghost that haunted the criminal underworld. But to you, he was something else. Not soft, not gentle—but yours. And if the world ever tried to touch you again, to drag you back into the hell you had escaped, Taskmaster would remind them—painfully, mercilessly—that Tony Masters does not forgive.

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny had never known real fear—not the kind that lived in bones, in breath, in the spaces between heartbeats. He had been reckless his entire life, unafraid, untouchable. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your body froze when anger crackled too close, it hit him. Hard. You weren’t just sensitive. You had been hurt.

- He didn’t know how to deal with that at first. He was loud, animated, a storm of energy and fire. But for you, he learned to temper himself. He kept his voice light, playful, never sharp. He warned you before he moved too fast, before his hands reached for you. It wasn’t something he did consciously—he just wanted to make you feel safe.

- But Johnny was also angry. Not at you, never at you, but at the people who had made you this way. He wasn’t violent—not like some of the others in your life—but if he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, he wouldn’t hesitate to burn their lives to the ground. Not physically, maybe, but socially, financially? He’d ruin them with a smile, make sure they lost everything.

- He didn’t always know what to do when the past clawed at you, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable. But he stayed. He cracked stupid jokes, let you curl into his warmth, let his fire chase away the cold that lingered in your bones. And when words failed him, when all he could do was be there, he would press a kiss to your forehead and whisper, "You got me, babe. You’ll always have me."

- Johnny was reckless, wild, untamed. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if anyone thought they could hurt you again, if the past ever came crawling back, they would learn the hard way that the Human Torch burns hotter than any hell they’ve ever known.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed was a man of logic, of science, of equations and solutions. But there was no equation for the way your breath hitched at loud voices, no formula for the way your body braced for impact when someone moved too quickly. He noticed it all, memorized the patterns, the reactions. And it wrecked him to realize why.

- He approached it the way he approached everything else—with patience, with precision. He never made you feel like an experiment, never made you feel studied. But he adapted. His voice never rose in anger, his movements were controlled, calculated. If he noticed you shrinking away, he would slow, give you space. He would never be something you feared.

- But Reed was also furious. He wasn’t a violent man, wasn’t someone who solved problems with fists or fire. But he was powerful. And when he found out who had hurt you, he destroyed them in the way only he could—legally, financially, socially. They lost their jobs, their reputations, their entire existences. And it was done so subtly, so flawlessly, that they never even knew why their world was falling apart.

- He wasn’t always good with emotions, wasn’t always good at comfort. But when you broke, when the past pulled you under, he was there. He held you, let you cling to him, let you find solace in his steady, unwavering presence. And when the worst of it passed, when you could finally breathe again, he would cup your face in his hands and whisper, "You are not alone. You never will be again."

- Reed Richards was a scientist, a genius, a man who could reshape reality itself. But for you, he was something even greater. He was yours. And if the world ever tried to hurt you again, he would remind them—quietly, ruthlessly—that there is no escape from the mind of Mr. Fantastic.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm had seen the worst of the world. He had felt the sting of rejection, the ache of knowing that no matter how much good he did, there would always be people who saw him as a monster. So when he learned about your past, when he realized the weight you carried, it wasn’t anger that filled him—not at you, never at you—but at the people who had made you this way. The people who had hurt you, who had made you flinch at loud voices and sudden movements, who had made you believe that love was something you had to earn.

- Ben was big—he knew that. He knew his size, his strength, could be intimidating. And so he was careful with you in ways most people wouldn’t expect. His movements around you were slower, more deliberate. He never raised his voice, never let frustration slip into his tone. If he ever had to yell, if the world pushed him to the point of shouting, he always made sure you weren’t in earshot. Because the last thing he ever wanted was to make you afraid of him.

- When the nightmares came, when the past wrapped its claws around your throat and dragged you back into the darkness, Ben was there. He didn’t say much—he knew words weren’t always enough—but he was steady. A wall of warmth and strength that you could lean against, could hide behind, could trust. And when the worst of it had passed, when you were left shaking and breathless, he would squeeze your hand and murmur, "Ain't nothin’ gonna hurt ya no more, sweetheart. Not while I’m here."

- But Ben was also fierce in his love. If he ever saw the people who had hurt you, if he ever had the chance to make them understand the damage they had done, he wouldn’t hesitate. He wasn’t a cruel man, wasn’t one for vengeance—but for you, for the love of his life, he would make an exception. They would know fear. They would pay. And if you ever worried about what he had done, about how far he was willing to go for you, he would simply shake his head and say, "Some people don’t deserve a second chance, doll. Some people just deserve a reminder of what it means to be small."

- Ben Grimm had been turned into a monster, but he had never been one. And when it came to you, when it came to keeping you safe, he was something else. A fortress. A protector. A love so unwavering it could withstand anything. And if the world ever tried to take you from him, if the past ever tried to claim you again, it would learn—The Thing doesn’t break. And he doesn’t let go.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan had always been a shield, always been the one to stand between the people she loved and the things that threatened them. But when she learned about your past, when she realized the depth of your pain, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—rage. Not the kind that burned hot and fast, not the kind that exploded outward, but the kind that simmered deep, the kind that settled into her bones and waited.

- She was gentle with you. Not because she thought you were fragile—no, she had seen your strength, had felt the resilience in your touch—but because she knew what it was like to carry a weight you couldn’t always put into words. She never pushed, never pried. But she watched. She learned your triggers, learned the small signs that meant you needed space or, conversely, that you needed her. And when you needed her, she was there—always.

- But Susan was not just a shield. She was also a weapon. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she didn’t hesitate. She erased them from your life, not just physically, but completely. She made sure they could never reach you again, never so much as whisper your name. She would never tell you what she had done—you had suffered enough. But if you ever asked, if you ever needed to know, she would take your hands in hers, look you in the eye, and say, "You never have to be afraid again."

- But beyond the protection, beyond the quiet, careful ways she ensured your safety, Susan loved you. And her love was soft. It was hands in your hair, arms wrapped around you in the quiet of the night. It was whispered reassurances, gentle smiles, the kind of tenderness that never asked for anything in return. She made you feel seen, made you feel wanted in a way you never had before. And if you ever doubted it, if the echoes of your past made you question your worth, she would cup your face in her hands and remind you—"You are not what they made you. You are mine."

- Susan Storm was many things. A hero, a leader, a woman who had faced more than most could ever understand. But when it came to you, she was something else. Unbreakable. Fierce. Yours. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if the people who had hurt you ever resurfaced, they would learn the hard way that The Invisible Woman sees everything—and she does not forgive.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia had spent her life slipping through the cracks of the world, always one step ahead, always dancing between the lines of hero and villain. But with you, there was no game, no mask. When she learned about your past, when she saw the way you shrank from anger, the way your breath hitched at the wrong tone, something inside her snapped. Because she had spent her whole life taking from people—stealing from them—but you? You had only ever had things stolen from you. And that? That wasn’t something she could forgive.

- She didn’t change who she was, didn’t suddenly become soft and delicate. But she became careful. Her teasing turned more mindful, her touches more deliberate. She never made a move without your permission, never touched you unless she knew you wanted her to. And if you ever flinched, ever winced at something unintentional, she would stop in her tracks, hold her hands up, and wait. Not with impatience, not with frustration, but with the unwavering promise that she would always let you set the pace.

- But Felicia was still Felicia. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she hunted. Not for money, not for jewels, but for revenge. She made their lives hell, made them feel small. She didn’t kill—not because she wasn’t willing, but because she knew that some punishments were worse than death. When she was done, they were nothing. Just ghosts of the monsters they had once been. And if you ever asked, if you ever wondered why you never heard from them again, she would smirk and purr, "Oh, kitten, let’s just say karma has very sharp claws."

- But for all her fire, for all her wild, reckless energy, Felicia loved you in a way that was startlingly soft. It was the way she curled against you at night, the way she brushed her fingers through your hair absentmindedly, the way she looked at you like you were the most valuable thing in the world. And for someone who had spent her life chasing the thrill of the steal, she found that nothing compared to the way you whispered her name in the quiet.

- Felicia Hardy was not a hero. She was not safe, she was not predictable. But when it came to you, she was something else entirely. Devoted. Fierce. Unrelenting. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if anyone dared to hurt you again, they would learn—The Black Cat does not share. And she never lets go.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen was not a man easily shaken. He had seen horrors beyond imagination, had faced gods and monsters and lived to tell the tale. But when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way your breath came too fast at sudden movement, he felt something inside him break. This? This was worse than any magic, worse than any curse. Because this was something human.

- He was not naturally gentle—not in the way others were. He was sharp, impatient, his mind always ten steps ahead. But with you, he learned. He softened his voice, measured his tone. He let you see his hands before he touched you, let you know where he was before he moved. He was deliberate in his care, never careless, never reckless.

- But he was also merciless. He did not tolerate those who harmed the innocent, and when he found out about your past, about the people who had made you this way—he acted. Not with violence, not with rage, but with something worse. A quiet, inescapable curse. A twist of fate that ensured they would never hurt anyone again.

- He wasn’t always great with comfort, wasn’t always great with words. But when the past gripped you too tightly, when you couldn’t breathe through the weight of it, he did what he did best—he protected. He cast wards around your mind, spells to soothe your fear. And when even magic wasn’t enough, he simply held you, his voice low and certain as he murmured, "You are safe. You are mine. And nothing will ever hurt you again."

- Stephen Strange was a sorcerer, a man who wielded the very fabric of the universe. But for you, he was something simpler—home. And if anyone thought they could take that from you, if the past ever dared to reclaim you, they would learn, in the most painful of ways, that Doctor Strange does not give second chances.

Namor

- Namor was not a gentle man. He was the ocean itself—vast, untamed, merciless when necessary. But when he learned of your past, when he realized the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have protected you, something inside him darkened. He had always known the cruelty of the surface world, had witnessed the rot that festered in its people, but to know that you—his beloved—had suffered beneath their hands? It ignited a rage deeper than the Mariana Trench.

- Yet, despite his nature, despite his storms, Namor was careful with you. He had never been one to temper himself for anyone, had never felt the need to soften his edges. But with you, he became something else. His voice, once sharp as the tridents he wielded, became measured in your presence. He moved with intention, never sudden, never careless. And if you flinched—if the ghosts of your past tried to drag you back—his hands would hover near but never touch, his eyes searching yours, waiting for permission. For you to reach for him.

- He did not speak empty reassurances, did not offer hollow words of comfort. Instead, he made promises. Promises backed by the weight of his throne, by the power of Atlantis itself. "No one will ever harm you again," he vowed, his voice like the tides—endless, absolute. "Not while I breathe. Not while I reign." And Namor was not a man who broke his vows. If he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, if they still drew breath, he would ensure that breath was stolen from their lungs, swallowed by the sea itself.

- But love with Namor was not only protection; it was devotion. It was the way he brought you to Atlantis, let you stand beside him, let the world see that you were his. It was the way he lifted you above even his own people, a mortal among gods, and dared anyone to question your place by his side. And when nightmares clawed at your mind, when fear crept into your bones, he would hold you—truly hold you, as if anchoring you to the present, reminding you that you were safe. That you were his.

- Namor was not a gentle man. But for you, he became something he had never been before. Patient. Steady. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the world—The ocean does not forget. And it does not forgive.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny had been to hell and back—literally. He had seen damnation, had felt the weight of chains, the burn of brimstone. But none of it compared to the rage that ignited in his chest when he learned what had been done to you. You didn’t have the scars he did, not the kind that burned in the shape of a demon’s touch, but you had scars all the same—ones that ran deep, ones that made you flinch at raised voices and sudden movements. And for that, he would never forgive the world.

- He was rough around the edges, hardened by a life that had never been kind. But around you, he softened—not in a way that made him weak, but in a way that made you safe. His voice never rose in anger, his hands never moved too fast. He always made sure you knew where he was before he touched you, always gave you the space to come to him. He wasn’t a gentle man, but for you, he learned to be careful.

- But Johnny was also vengeful. He didn’t believe in letting monsters walk free. When he found out who had hurt you, the Ghost Rider stirred in his chest, the flames of vengeance licking at his bones. He never told you what happened to them—only that they were gone, their souls left to answer for what they had done. And if the nightmares still came, if the past still clawed at you, he would pull you against him, let the warmth of his fire chase away the cold.

- He wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But when your breath hitched in fear, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable, he was there. He let you cling to him, let you bury your face in his chest, his arms steady and strong around you. And when the worst of it passed, when the ghosts of your past finally loosened their grip, he would press a kiss to your hair and murmur, "Ain't nobody hurtin’ you again. Not while I’m around."

- Johnny Blaze had been cursed, had been broken, had been forced to walk through hell itself. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if the past ever came for you again, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to resurface, they would learn—painfully, mercilessly—that the Ghost Rider does not forgive.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie had never trusted the world. It had chewed him up, spit him out, left him hollow and angry. But when he met you, when he saw the way you carried yourself—beautiful, but always guarded—he recognized the same war in your eyes. And when he learned why, when he pieced together the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you braced for impact at sudden movement, something inside him snapped.

- Venom reacted first, a growl rumbling from deep within his chest, a protective rage Eddie had never quite felt before. "Who hurt her?" the symbiote demanded, its voice a low, dangerous snarl in his mind. And Eddie, for once, didn’t try to hold Venom back. Because for the first time in his life, he had something worth protecting.

- Eddie wasn’t a good man. He had tried to be once, had tried to play by the rules, but the world had beaten that out of him. And when it came to you, when it came to them, the ones who had hurt you—there were no rules. He never told you what he did, never let you see the mess he made of them. But he came back to you with blood on his hands and nothing but gentleness in his touch.

- Venom became your shadow, an unseen protector that never strayed far. "We will keep you safe," the symbiote would whisper to you in the dead of night, its voice low and almost affectionate. Eddie wasn’t much better—he was obsessive in his care, possessive in the way he made sure you always knew you were his. Not in a way that suffocated, but in a way that promised—no one will ever hurt you again.

- Eddie Brock was not a hero. He was not kind, not merciful. But for you? He was yours. And if the world ever thought to take you from him, to drag you back into the darkness you had escaped, it would learn the hard way that Venom does not share.

T'Challa (Black Panther)

- T'Challa had spent his life protecting his people, had spent years ensuring that no harm befell Wakanda. But when he learned of your past, of the pain you had suffered, it was the first time he had ever felt helpless. Because this was a war that had already been fought, a battle whose scars could not be undone. And for all his knowledge, all his power, he could not rewrite history. He could only stand beside you in its aftermath and swear that you would never face such suffering again.

- He was a man of control, of precision, but around you, he became something softer. His movements were measured, his tone always gentle. He never raised his voice near you—not in anger, not in command—because he had seen the way sharp tones made your breath catch, had felt the way sudden movements made you stiffen. And T'Challa was not a man who ignored the unspoken. He adapted, not out of obligation, but because he loved you. And love, to him, meant understanding.

- But there was also fire in his love. A quiet, unshakable wrath that burned beneath his skin when he thought of those who had hurt you. He did not believe in cruelty, did not believe in striking down those who were weak. But if your abusers still lived, still walked, he would make certain they never did so again. Not through violence, not through blood—no, T’Challa was smarter than that. He would dismantle their lives piece by piece, until they had nothing. Until they felt, for the first time, what it meant to be powerless.

- But his vengeance was not the weight he placed on your shoulders. With you, he was light. His love was the kind that wrapped around you in quiet moments, the kind that whispered through fingertips grazing your skin, through the warmth of his presence beside you. He did not try to fix what had been broken—he simply stood beside you, unwavering. And when the nights were long, when the memories clawed at your mind, he would hold you against his chest and murmur, "You are not alone. You will never be alone again."

- T’Challa was a king. A warrior. A man who bore the weight of a nation on his shoulders. But when it came to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A lover. A promise. And if the past ever tried to take you from him, if the shadows of your childhood ever threatened to return, he would remind the world—The Black Panther does not bow. And he does not forget.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had never believed in softness. Her world had been carved from blood, from betrayal, from the understanding that love was often just another weapon waiting to be used against you. But with you, everything changed. Because when she learned of your past, when she realized the depths of the pain you had endured, it was the first time in her life that she wanted to protect something—not for duty, not for advantage, but for love.

- She was sharp edges and honed steel, but for you, she became something different. She learned your triggers, memorized them like she would a target’s weaknesses. She moved differently around you—not with hesitation, but with intent. She never raised her voice, never made a move she knew would unsettle you. And if you ever flinched, if the ghosts of your childhood ever tried to pull you back, she would wait. Not with frustration, not with pity, but with the steady patience of a woman who had spent her life navigating war zones.

- But Elektra was still Elektra. And if she ever saw the people who had hurt you, they would cease to exist. Not metaphorically. Not in some abstract, distant way. She would erase them from the world, make them disappear in the only way she knew how. And she would never tell you. Because she knew you—knew that despite everything, there was still goodness in you, still kindness that the world had not managed to steal. And she would not let her darkness stain that.

- But her love was not just vengeance. It was fierce devotion, the kind that bound itself to your bones and refused to let go. She did not whisper reassurances, did not offer empty comfort. Instead, she showed you. In the way she stood between you and the world, in the way she let her guard down in your presence, in the way she let you touch her scars—both the ones on her skin and the ones hidden deeper. With you, she was not the assassin, not the warrior. She was simply yours.

- Elektra did not believe in softness. But for you, she learned. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, she would ensure one thing—The world may have failed you once. But it will never touch you again.

Muse

- Muse was not a man of warmth, nor was he a man of comfort. He was a creature of chaos, an artist who carved beauty from suffering, who found divinity in destruction. Yet, when he learned of your past, when the remnants of your childhood bled into the present, he did not respond with words—Muse was never a man of words. Instead, he listened, in his own twisted way, tilting his head like a predator considering its prey. Not out of cruelty, not out of disinterest, but because he was fascinated—not by your pain, but by you. By the fact that you had endured.

- His movements, normally erratic and unpredictable, shifted in your presence. He never made sudden gestures near you, never raised his voice—though his voice was never loud to begin with. And though he lacked the morality most others possessed, he understood something primal about fear, about trauma. He had seen it in the eyes of those who had stared too long into the abyss before he ended them. And so, when your past clawed at your mind, when memories threatened to drown you, Muse would simply be there—unmoving, silent, an ever-present shadow beside you.

- But Muse was still Muse. And when he realized the ones who had hurt you were still out there, still breathing, he could not fathom why you had let them live. You may have been content to let the past remain buried, but he was not. He was an artist, and what better canvas than the flesh of those who had dared to break what was his? He never told you what he did. Never let you see the grotesque poetry he left behind. But if your abusers began disappearing, one by one, if whispers of horrors filled the underworld, you would know. And Muse? He would only tilt his head and smile.

- But it was not only destruction that defined his love—it was obsession. The way his fingers would trace your features, as if memorizing every inch of you, as if you were the only masterpiece worth preserving. The way he would sit in silence, sketching, painting, creating you over and over again as if he could capture you, keep you forever. The way he would stare—unblinking, unwavering—not with judgment, not with pity, but with a reverence so deep it was almost worship.

- Muse did not love like others. His love was twisted, fractured, something neither holy nor entirely damned. But in his own way, he was constant. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the shadows of your childhood ever reached for you again, he would remind the world—Pain is temporary. But art? Art is eternal.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom did not tolerate weakness—not in himself, not in others. But when he learned of your past, when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way fear flickered in your eyes at the wrong tone, he did not see weakness. He saw injustice. And Doom did not tolerate injustice.

- He did not ask questions—he did not need to. The knowledge of what had been done to you came to him through his own means, through whispers and shadows. And once he knew, once he understood, he acted with the precision of a man who had never allowed an insult to go unanswered. The ones who had hurt you ceased to exist—not just physically, but entirely. Their names were erased, their legacies burned, their very existence reduced to nothing.

- Doom was not a man of softness, but with you, he was something close. His voice never rose in your presence, his movements were deliberate, measured. He did not comfort—he protected. He ensured you were untouchable, invulnerable. He built walls around you, not to keep you in, but to keep the world out. And if that meant drenching the earth in blood, so be it.

- He was not affectionate in the way others were. He did not whisper reassurances, did not soothe with words. But when you trembled, when memories wrapped around your throat like chains, he was there. He would tilt your chin up, force you to meet his gaze, and state—simply, factually—"You are Doom’s. And Doom does not allow his to suffer."

- Victor von Doom was a tyrant, a ruler, a man feared by nations. But when it came to you, he was something else. A shield. A weapon. A god. And if anyone, anyone, thought to take what was his, they would learn—painfully, excruciatingly—that Doom does not forgive.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter had spent his life running—from responsibility, from the past, from the weight of loss. But he couldn’t run from this. He couldn’t run from the way you flinched at sudden movement, the way your breath hitched when voices rose too loud. And when he learned why—when he learned what had been done to you—his usual easygoing demeanor cracked.

- He wasn’t like the others—he wasn’t ruthless, wasn’t cruel. But he was protective. And when he found out about the people who had hurt you, he didn’t let it go. He didn’t let them go. He wasn’t a killer, not by nature, but for you? He would make an exception. He didn’t tell you what happened—only that they wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

- Peter wasn’t always great at dealing with feelings. He was better with jokes, with distractions. But he was attentive. If he saw the past creeping up on you, if he saw the way your hands trembled, he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t pry. He’d just pull you into some ridiculous adventure, make you laugh until you forgot, if only for a moment, that the past even existed.

- And when that wasn’t enough, when the weight of it all settled too heavily on your shoulders, he would hold you. No words, no reassurances—just warmth, just presence. And when you finally pulled away, when the worst of it had passed, he would grin and say, "Y’know, babe, I don’t say this lightly, but… if you ever need someone to be space dust, I got your back."

- Peter Quill was not perfect. He was reckless, immature, sometimes a little too much. But for you, he was something else. He was home. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever thought to reclaim you, they would learn that Star-Lord never lets go of what’s his.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider had seen suffering. He had seen entire planets crumble, had watched as entire civilizations were snuffed out like dying embers. But when he learned of your pain, of the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have loved you, it was different. Because this wasn’t war, wasn’t some inevitable cosmic tragedy—this was personal. This was something that had been done to you, something that had shaped the person he loved. And he didn’t know how to handle that.

- He had always been brash, reckless, loud—but for you, he tried. He learned not to raise his voice around you, even when frustration burned in his throat. He learned to move slower, to be gentle, even when every instinct told him to rush in, to act. And when you flinched—when old wounds resurfaced and you expected anger, expected punishment—he would stop, hands raised, eyes wide with something raw. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here. No one's gonna hurt you. Not ever again." And he meant it.

- But Nova had never been good at stillness. He needed action, needed to do something. And the knowledge that the people who had hurt you were still out there? It ate at him. He wasn't like Daredevil, wasn't some brooding vigilante lurking in the shadows—he was Nova. And that meant he could go anywhere. It meant that if he ever found them, if he ever got so much as a whisper of their location, he would ensure they never so much as breathed in your direction again. He wouldn’t kill them—he wasn’t that kind of man—but he would make damn sure they wished he had.

- But love with Richard was not only protection—it was light. It was the way he made you laugh, the way he insisted on making you laugh, even when the weight of your past threatened to pull you under. It was the way he wrapped you in his arms, warm and solid, a barrier between you and the rest of the universe. It was the way he kissed you—soft when you needed gentleness, fierce when he needed to remind you that you were here, that you were his, that you were alive.

- Richard Rider had seen entire worlds burn. But he had never fought for anything as fiercely as he fought for you. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the universe—There’s not a single star out there worth more than the person I love. And I will tear the cosmos apart before I let them suffer again.

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mcrdvcks · 7 months ago

Text

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 2023 - nothing matters but you

chapter summary: The remaining X-Men come up with a plan to change their present; send Logan back in time to change the past.

word count: 17.1k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: oooohhhh boy!! i've been waiting for this chapter for so long and it's finally here! i'll have more to say at the end, but for now, and i truly mean it, enjoy!!! <3

warnings/tags: takes place during 'days of future past', dofp!logan, light miscommunication, angst, light violence, blood, character death, fluff, memory loss, happy ending!

series masterlist - chapter 10

The Blackbird landed on the top of the large mountain in front of a monastery. Ororo walked out first, followed by Logan, who paused at the bottom of the stairs to light his cigar, Charles, whose chair hovered down the stairs, and Erik.

They walked to the front of the monastery as Bobby spoke, “Professor.”

Ororo smiled, “Bobby.”

“Hey, Storm,” he replied, giving the woman a hug.

“Hey, kid.” Logan said.

“Professor,” Kitty called out. “You made it.”

The group made their way inside as Kitty explained how the group had been surviving, “Warpath spots them, and I send Bishop back to warn us of the attack before it happens. Blink scouts the next site, and… well, we leave before they ever know we were there.”

“Because we never were.” Bishop said.

“But what do you mean, you were never there?” Logan asked.

Charles looked over at Logan, “she projects Bishop back in time a few days to warn the others of the coming attack.”

“So she sends Bishop back in time?”

“No, just his consciousness into his younger self, his younger body.” Charles clarified.

“Wow.” Logan muttered.

“This might just work, Charles.” Erik commented.

“What might work?” Kitty questioned.

“The Sentinel program was originally conceived by Dr. Bolivar Trask. In the early ‘70s, he was one of the world’s leading weapons designers, but covertly, he had begun experimenting on mutants, using their gifts to fuel his own research. There was one mutant who had discovered what he was doing.” Charles explained.

“A mutant with the ability to transform herself into anyone.” Erik added.

“Mystique,” Peter said.

“I knew her as Raven. We met when we were children. Grew up together. She was like a sister to me. I tried to help her, but only succeeded in driving her away. She hunted Trask across the world, and at the Paris Peace Accords in 1973, after the Vietnam War, she found Trask. And killed him. It was the first time she killed.”

“It wasn’t her last.” Logan added on.

“But killing Trask did not have the outcome she expected. It only persuaded the government of the need for his program. They captured her that day. Tortured her. Experimented on her. In her DNA, they discovered the secrets to her powers of transformation. It gave them the key they needed to create weapons that could adapt to any mutant power, and in less than 50 years, the machines that have destroyed so many of our kind were created. But it all started that day in 1973, the day she first killed, the day she truly became… Mystique.” Charles finished.

“You want to go back there,” Kitty said.

“If I can get to her, stop the assassination, keep her out of their hands, then we can stop the Sentinels from ever being born.”

“And end this war before it ever begins.” Erik spoke.

“I-I can send someone back a couple weeks. I mean, maybe a month, but you’re talking about going back decades. You have the most powerful brain in the world, Professor, but the mind can only stretch so far before it snaps. It would rip you apart. I’m sorry. No one could survive that trip.” Kitty remarked.

“What if someone’s mind has a way of snapping back?” Logan asked. “What if someone can heal as fast as they’re ripped apart?”

---

Logan stood by the table as Charles, Erik, Kitty, and Bobby stood nearby, the rest outside of the monastery keeping watch.

“So I wake up in my younger body, God knows where. Then what?”

“You’ll need to go to my house and find me. Convince me of all of this.” Charles moved closer to Logan.

“Won’t you be able to just read my mind?”

“I didn’t have my powers in 1973. Logan, you’re going to have to do for me what I once did for you. Lead me, guide me. I was a very different man then. You’ll have to be patient with me.”

Logan scoffed, “patience isn’t my strongest suit.”

“You’ll need me as well,” Erik spoke up.

“What?” Logan turned to face Erik behind him.

“After Mystique left Charles, she came with me, and I set her on a dangerous path. Darker path. It’s going to take the two of us, side by side at a time when we couldn’t be further apart.”

Logan looked at Charles who nodded in affirmation, “great,” he muttered to himself. “So, where do I find you?”

“Well, it’s complicated.” Erik said, as Logan shook his head and stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

Logan got onto the table and lied down, Kitty sitting at the head of the table, “basically, your body will go to sleep while your mind travels back in time. Now, as long as you’re back there, past and present will continue to coexist, but once you wake up… whatever you’ve done will take hold and become history. And for the rest of us it’ll be the only history that we know. It’ll be like the last 50 years never happened. And this world, and this war… the only person who will remember it is you.” Kitty took a breath, “all right, Logan, I need you to clear your head and to stay as calm possible.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“If your mind gets rocky, it’ll be harder for me to hold you, and you could start to slip between past and future.”

“What if I need to get a little rocky?”

Kitty lightly shook her head, “think peaceful thoughts?”

“Peaceful thoughts.” Logan repeated. “You have any good news?”

“Well, I mean, you don’t really age, so you’ll pretty much look the same.”

Bobby spoke up, “you won’t have much time in the past. The Sentinels will find us. They always do.”

“And this time, we won’t be able to run. We’ll have no escape. This is our last chance.” Kitty’s hands hovered near the sides of Logan’s head.

“See you all soon.” Logan said.

“This might sting a little.”

---

Logan blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim, warm glow of the lava lamp. Its lazy, hypnotic bubbles drifted in the liquid, but his mind was racing to catch up. The sharp, immediate transition from the future to… this—the past, his past—had his senses momentarily disoriented.

The pressure against his neck snapped him into focus. An arm was draped over his shoulder from behind, soft, warm, and familiar. He shifted his head just enough to glance at the hand resting on his chest. It was delicate, but the grip was firm, like whoever it belonged to had no intention of letting him go.

“Mornin’,” your voice came from behind him, groggy and soft. Your tone was laced with the remnants of sleep but carried the easy, teasing warmth that always seemed to put him off guard.

His heart clenched. You.

You leaned into him slightly, pressing your cheek against his shoulder as you stretched, entirely unaware of the whirlwind in his head. The past, your face, the other you. The fact that he hadn’t seen this version of you in nearly 50 years.

“Didn’t think I’d need to pry you out of bed first,” you teased lightly, your hand giving his chest a playful pat before you settled again. “Usually, you’re already up before the sun, big guy.”

Logan’s jaw clenched at the nickname. His eyes narrowed at the room—a modest hotel room with vintage floral wallpaper and creaky wooden furniture—and the small pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. His leather jacket. Your dress. The pieces clicked into place far too quickly, but they didn’t make it easier to stomach.

He turned his head enough to catch sight of you, hair slightly messy, lips curled in a lazy grin. You were radiant in a way that didn’t match the world he’d just left behind. The world he’d come back to fix. And you had no idea how much he’d missed that expression.

“What’s with the look?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I have something on my face, or are you just debating whether or not you’re gonna finish that cigar from yesterday?”

Logan shook his head slightly, clearing the fog. “Nah. Just… thinkin’.”

“You?” you quipped. “That’s dangerous.”

“Cute,” he replied dryly, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

You laughed and pulled back, sitting up against the headboard. Your expression softened when you caught a hint of the tension still lingering in his body. “You okay? You seem… off.”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting on the edge to gather himself. “Just didn’t sleep great.”

“You tossed and turned a lot,” you agreed, though your concern didn’t waver. “Another bad dream?”

Logan didn’t answer immediately. The memories of the future, the Sentinels, the war, and your other death pressed heavily on him. Instead, he grunted noncommittally and stood, grabbing his jeans from a chair nearby.

“Y’know,” you said behind him, watching as he pulled on his shirt, “most bodyguards don’t get that much real estate in their boss’s daughter’s bed.”

Logan froze for a beat before throwing you a glance over his shoulder. “Most bodyguards don’t sneak them outta her own wedding either, darlin’.”

You grinned mischievously, leaning your head back against the headboard. “Guess that makes us even.”

He shook his head but couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped. You haven’t changed a bit.

Before either of you could say anything more, there was a sharp knock on the door. Logan’s entire body tensed, his senses sharpening instantly. He sniffed the air, picking up the distinct scents of sweat, leather, and gunpowder.

“Stay here,” he said lowly, grabbing his jacket and stepping toward the door.

“Logan, what—”

“I mean it,” he said, cutting you off with a firm glance. The tone in his voice told you not to argue.

He moved toward the door, his hand hovering over the knob as his other reached behind him for the small knife he kept tucked into his waistband. He opened the door slightly, just enough to peer through the crack.

Two men stood in the hall, dressed in dark suits. Their faces were sharp, unfamiliar, but their eyes carried an unmistakable menace.

“Can I help you?” Logan asked gruffly.

“Yeah,” one of them said. “We’re here for the lady. Her father’s lookin’ for her.”

Logan didn’t hesitate. He slammed the door shut and locked it, spinning back toward you. “Get down,” he barked.

“What’s going on?” you asked, but the urgency in his voice made you scramble off the bed.

The door shuddered as one of the men kicked it. Logan growled low in his throat, adrenaline surging as his hands instinctively balled into fists. Bone claws erupted from his knuckles with a sickening snikt, and he turned toward the door just as it splintered inward.

Your sharp gasp filled the room, but there was no time for questions. Logan launched himself at the first man, driving his claws deep into the guy’s shoulder. Blood sprayed across the room as the second man raised a gun, but Logan was faster. He yanked his claws free and swung, knocking the weapon from the man’s hand before driving his claws into his stomach.

It was over in seconds, but the aftermath left the room in chaos. Logan stood over the bodies, his breathing heavy, his shirt streaked with blood. His claws glistened in the dim light, and as he turned toward you, his expression softened.

“Logan…” you whispered, your voice shaking. Your eyes were wide, fixed on the bone claws still protruding from his hands.

He hesitated, then retracted them with a shudder, the wounds on his knuckles sealing themselves almost instantly. “I can explain,” he said gruffly.

“You—you just…” You couldn’t find the words.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping toward you carefully. “I need you to trust me.”

You stared at him, your mind racing. The man you thought you knew had just turned into something else entirely—but it wasn’t fear that kept you rooted in place. It was the way he was looking at you, desperate, protective, like he’d go through hell just to keep you safe.

“I…” You took a shaky breath. “I trust you.”

Logan’s shoulders sagged in relief, though the tension in the room didn’t dissipate. He grabbed a bag from the corner of the room and tossed it toward you. “We need to move. Now.”

Before you could question him further, he bent down, rummaging through the man’s jacket pocket to snag the keys before heading for the door. You hesitated, your mind still racing to process what you had just seen. The claws, the blood, the sheer force he used to take out armed men—it was like something out of a nightmare. But Logan wasn’t the nightmare. He was the only constant in this whirlwind you called your life.

“Y/N,” Logan’s voice broke through your haze. He was standing by the door, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Let’s go. Now.”

You shoved a few belongings into the bag, still half-dressed from sleep, and moved quickly to his side. “Logan, what the hell is goin’ on?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said, keeping his voice low and his gaze locked on the hallway as he peeked out. “For now, we’ve gotta put some distance between us and whoever else your father’s sent after you.”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of your father, but you followed him out of the room, clutching the strap of the bag tightly. “How did they even find us?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Logan muttered, leading you down the narrow hallway. His shoulders were rigid, his entire body coiled like a spring. “What matters is keeping you outta their hands.”

The two of you reached the stairwell, and Logan paused at the top, scanning the area below. He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. Whatever he smelled didn’t seem to calm him, but he motioned for you to follow anyway.

You descended the stairs as quietly as you could, your bare feet barely making a sound against the worn carpet. “Logan, seriously, you need to tell me what’s going on. Those… claws, or whatever—”

“Not now, sweetheart,” he interrupted, his voice tense but firm. “We’ve gotta focus on getting outta here.”

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling under your skin. This wasn’t the first time Logan had dodged your questions, but after what you’d just seen, you weren’t about to let it slide for long.

The two of you slipped out a side door into the cool morning air. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few scattered vehicles. Logan made a beeline for a black sedan parked near the edge of the lot. He unlocked the door and ushered you inside without a word.

“Logan—” you started as he slid into the driver’s seat, but he cut you off again.

“Buckle up,” he said, starting the engine.

You shot him a glare but did as he said, snapping the seatbelt into place. Logan peeled out of the lot, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as his eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the faint thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You watched him closely, noting the way his jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white around the wheel.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on now?” you finally demanded, crossing your arms. “Because I think I deserve an explanation after that little… display back there.”

Logan let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes still on the road. “It’s complicated.”

“No kidding,” you shot back. “Start with the claws. What the hell are they, Logan? And don’t tell me they’re some kind of freak weapon because I saw them come out of your hands.”

He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable. “They’re a part of me,” he said simply.

You blinked, taken aback by the matter-of-fact tone in his voice. “What do you mean, ‘a part of you’? Like, you were born with them?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered.

You stared at him, waiting for more, but he didn’t elaborate. Frustration bubbled over, and you leaned forward, grabbing his arm. “Logan, I’m serious. I need answers.”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as he finally looked over at you. “I’ll tell you everything, sweetheart. Just not right now. Right now, we’ve gotta focus on getting somewhere safe.”

“And where’s that?” you asked, your voice softening slightly.

“A place I know,” he said, turning his attention back to the road. “We’ll head north, get outta the city, and figure it out from there.”

You frowned, unsure whether to trust his vague assurances. But the look in his eyes, the raw determination mixed with something you couldn’t quite place—it was enough to quiet your doubts for now.

“Fine,” you said, leaning back in your seat. “But you owe me the truth. All of it.”

Logan smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve always been a tough one, huh?”

“Damn right,” you muttered, crossing your arms again. But despite your defiant tone, a small part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something else—something warm and familiar—when he called you tough.

You didn’t notice the way his grip on the wheel tightened at your response or the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. To you, this was just another chaotic morning in the whirlwind of your life. But to Logan, it was a painful reminder of how many mornings like this he’d lost with you.

---

You tapped your fingers on your thigh, still waiting for Logan to come out of this mansion, which looked like it had seen better days.

You groaned as you tilted your head back, adjusting yourself in the car seat. It had been a while since Logan left the car and went inside, almost 2 hours. You would know, you’ve been watching the clock.

Finally, Logan stepped outside and briskly walked to the car door, opening it for you. “Jesus, what took so long?” You asked, as he grabbed your bag from the backside and guided you into the house where two other men were, one with glasses, the other with long curly hair. “Logan-?”

“You’re staying here.” He stated.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your eyes narrowing at Logan. “What?” you demanded. “You said we’d figure this out together. You didn’t say anything about leaving me here.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair, already looking stressed. “Plans changed, darlin’,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “Charles and Hank are comin’ with me. We’ve got somethin’ to take care of, and it’s safer if you stay here.”

“Safer? Logan, this place is the size of a damn castle!” You gestured around the massive entry hall, frustration spilling over. “You’re just gonna leave me here by myself? What if they come for me again? What am I supposed to do then?”

“You won’t be alone,” Charles interjected, his tone measured but polite. He glanced briefly at Logan, as if trying to gauge how much to say. “This house has a number of protections. You’ll be secure here.”

“Secure from who?” you fired back, your eyes darting between the two men. “You all keep throwing words around like ‘safe’ and ‘protected,’ but you won’t tell me from what!”

Logan stepped closer, his voice softening. “Y/N, I know you’ve got questions, and I know this ain’t easy, but trust me. If I thought for a second there was a better way to keep you outta harm’s way, I’d do it.”

You stared at him, trying to ignore the way his voice—the way he called you by name—seemed to ease some of the tension in your chest. But it wasn’t enough. “You always do this,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You make decisions for me like I’m some fragile little doll. I’m not helpless, Logan.”

“I know that,” he said quickly, his gaze locking onto yours. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna take chances with you.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head. “And where exactly are you going that’s so important you can’t tell me?”

Logan hesitated, his jaw tightening. He glanced at Charles, who gave him a slight nod. “We’ve gotta stop someone,” Logan finally said, his voice low. “Someone who’s about to make a big mistake.”

“That’s it?” you asked, your frustration rising again. “That’s all you’re gonna give me?”

“That’s all you need to know right now,” Logan replied. He reached out, his hand brushing against your arm. “Look, I promise I’ll explain everything when I get back. But for now, I need you to trust me.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with a mix of anger and something softer, something you didn’t want to name. “Fine,” you said at last, pulling away from his touch. “But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

Logan smirked faintly, though his eyes were serious. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Charles cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Y/N, I understand this is a lot to take in, but I assure you, this is the safest course of action for now. Hank and I will only be gone for a short while.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, glancing at him briefly. “You better be.”

Logan nodded at Charles, then turned back to you. “There’s food in the kitchen, and plenty of space to stretch out. Don’t open the doors for anyone but me or them. Got it?”

You rolled your eyes but nodded. “Got it.”

Logan hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but then he turned and followed Charles and Hank toward the door. You watched them leave, the sound of the heavy door closing echoing in the empty mansion.

For a long moment, you stood in the middle of the entry hall, clutching your bag and trying to process everything that had just happened. Finally, you let out a heavy sigh and slung the bag over your shoulder.

“Guess I’m on my own,” you muttered, heading deeper into the mansion to figure out how the hell you were supposed to pass the time in this massive, empty house.

---

It didn’t take long for you to get bored, even in a place as massive as this. From what you gathered during your first walkthrough, this mansion had likely been a boarding school at some point. The classrooms, rows of bedrooms, and an enormous kitchen all hinted at its past. But now, it was eerily quiet—like a castle frozen in time.

You wandered aimlessly, peeking into rooms and finding nothing but empty desks, dust-covered books, and a growing sense of restlessness. The longer you roamed, the more your mind churned over Logan’s sudden departure. You didn’t want to admit it, but his absence had left a void—a nagging worry that you couldn’t shake.

You sighed, stopping in front of a wide window overlooking the overgrown courtyard. What am I even doing here? you thought. Your fingers tapped against the windowpane as you chewed the inside of your cheek. Maybe you should’ve pushed harder for answers instead of letting Logan sidestep your questions—again.

The faint hum of a clock ticking in the hallway was the only sound accompanying your thoughts. It wasn’t enough to drown out the memories of Logan’s claws unsheathing back at the hotel or the unspoken tension in his voice when he said, “you won’t be alone.”

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, turning away from the window. “Stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing but cryptic warnings and empty rooms.”

You wandered back to the kitchen, hoping to find something to pass the time. The fridge was surprisingly well-stocked, and you made yourself a quick sandwich. As you ate, your gaze drifted toward the doorway, half expecting Logan to stride through it with that familiar scowl on his face.

But the doorway remained empty.

With a groan, you pushed the plate away and leaned back in the chair. “This sucks,” you muttered.

The silence pressed against your ears as you sat there, tapping your fingers on the table. You couldn’t help but think back to Logan’s expression when he’d left. There was something in his eyes—something heavy, like he was carrying more than just the weight of keeping you safe. He always did that, didn’t he? Took on the burden for everyone else, even if it meant shutting you out.

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. No more sitting around like a damsel in distress, you decided. If Logan was off dealing with whatever ‘big mistake’ he’d mentioned, you’d figure out how to occupy yourself in the meantime.

---

A while later, you found yourself back in one of the old classrooms. The chalkboards were dusty, and the desks were in varying states of disrepair, but it was oddly comforting in a way. You sat down at one of the desks and fiddled with a piece of chalk, drawing random lines on the board in front of you.

The quiet of the mansion felt oppressive. Every creak of the old wood or groan of the structure made your heart skip a beat. You weren’t sure if it was just your imagination playing tricks on you or if there was something more sinister lurking in the silence.

You sighed, leaning back in the chair. “Why’d you leave me here, Logan?” you muttered to yourself. The question hung in the air, unanswered, like so many others he’d dodged over the months.

As you stared at the lines you’d absentmindedly drawn, you thought back to your father. His control over your life had been suffocating, but this—running, hiding, fearing what might come next—was a different kind of prison. Logan had promised to protect you, but how could he if he wasn’t here?

A sudden noise in the hallway snapped you out of your thoughts. You froze, the piece of chalk slipping from your fingers and clattering onto the desk.

“Logan?” you called out, your voice trembling slightly. There was no response.

You rose slowly from the desk, your heart pounding in your chest. The sound came again—closer this time. It wasn’t the creak of the old mansion settling. It was deliberate, like footsteps.

You moved toward the door, peeking into the hallway. It was empty, but the faint sound of movement reached your ears from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Logan?” you tried again, your voice firmer.

Still nothing.

Clutching your jacket sleeve tightly, you stepped into the hallway, your bare feet silent against the worn wooden floors. The air felt colder somehow, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer.

You made your way toward the source of the noise, your pulse quickening with every step. Part of you wanted to turn back, to lock yourself in one of the rooms and wait for Logan to return, but you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

As you rounded the corner, you saw them. Men in dark suits, their faces obscured by the dim lighting. There were at least four of them, moving methodically through the mansion as if they knew exactly where to look.

Your breath caught in your throat. They weren’t here by accident.

You turned quickly, intending to retreat and find a place to hide, but it was too late. One of the men spotted you, his sharp eyes locking onto yours.

“She’s here!” he barked, and the others turned toward you immediately.

Panic surged through your veins as you broke into a sprint, your bare feet barely making a sound against the floor. You didn’t know where you were running, only that you had to get away.

“Stop her!” one of them shouted, and the sound of heavy footsteps followed you.

You darted into another hallway, your mind racing. You needed a plan, a way out, but the labyrinthine mansion offered no clear escape routes.

A hand suddenly grabbed your arm, yanking you backward. You let out a startled cry, struggling against the grip.

“Let go of me!” you screamed, kicking and clawing at the man holding you.

He grimaced but held firm, dragging you toward the others. “Stop fighting, or this gets messy,” he growled.

“Like hell it does,” you spat, managing to stomp on his foot hard enough to make him loosen his grip.

You broke free, stumbling forward, but another man was already there. He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you off the ground despite your thrashing.

“Let me go!” you shouted, your voice echoing through the empty halls.

“Enough!” a voice barked, and the men froze.

A figure stepped out of the shadows—an older man with a cold, calculating expression. You recognized him immediately. One of your father’s men.

“Miss Y/N,” he said smoothly, his tone dripping with false politeness. “Your father’s been worried sick about you.”

“Bullshit,” you snapped, glaring at him. “He doesn’t care about me.”

The man chuckled, a low, menacing sound. “Whether he cares or not isn’t really the issue, is it? You belong to him. And he’s decided it’s time you came home.”

“Over my dead body,” you shot back, your voice defiant even as fear coiled in your chest.

The man’s smile widened, and there was something cruel in his eyes. “If that’s what it takes.”

You struggled harder, but the men holding you were too strong. They began dragging you toward the exit, your cries for help swallowed by the vast emptiness of the mansion.

In that moment, a horrible realization settled over you. Logan wasn’t here to save you.

And this time, there was no escape.

---

The room was dim, lit by a single, flickering bulb swaying overhead. The scent of mildew clung to the air, mixing with the metallic tang of rust from the pipes along the walls. You blinked groggily, your head pounding as the events leading up to this moment replayed in your mind.

Interrogation, then murder. That’s how these things went. You knew it, had known it since you were a child sitting quietly at the top of the stairs, listening in on conversations you weren’t supposed to hear. The Romano family didn’t forgive betrayal, and neither did your father.

Your wrists ached where the rough ropes dug into them, tying you to the chair. The metal groaned beneath your weight as you tried to shift, testing the bindings. No give. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe.

From the shadows, the men emerged one by one, their faces a mix of familiarity and dread. You recognized some from your father’s estate—men who had once tipped their hats to you out of respect, now staring at you like a wolf pack eyeing its prey. Among them was Clyde Romano, his sharp suit immaculate despite the grim surroundings.

“Well, well,” Clyde drawled, adjusting his cuffs as he stepped closer. His cold eyes gleamed with a mixture of triumph and disdain. “You’ve been a busy little runaway, haven’t you?”

“Fuck you, Clyde,” you spat, your voice steadier than you expected.

He smirked, leaning in until you could feel his breath against your cheek. “Bold words for someone in your position. But that’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? Too much mouth, not enough sense.”

One of the men chuckled darkly, and you shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.

Clyde straightened, motioning for the others to spread out. “See, Y/N, this could’ve all been so simple. You play the good little bride, marry into the family, and keep your mouth shut. But no. You had to run. Had to embarrass your father. And me.”

“Embarrass you?” You barked out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were your fragile little feelings hurt because I didn’t want to be your trophy wife?”

Clyde’s smile faltered, his jaw tightening. He nodded toward one of his men, who stepped forward and struck you across the face. Pain exploded along your cheek, sharp and hot.

“Watch your mouth,” Clyde hissed.

You turned your head back slowly, your vision swimming. Blood trickled from the corner of your lip, but you smiled through it, defiant. “That all you’ve got?”

Clyde’s expression darkened, and he stepped closer, gripping your chin roughly. “You’re real brave for someone who doesn’t have a way out.”

Your stomach twisted at the truth of his words, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in your eyes. “Better to die standing than live on my knees,” you shot back.

“Your boyfriend isn’t here to save you, sweetheart,” he said casually, his tone laced with mockery. “What was his name? Logan?”

Your heart clenched at the sound of his name, but you kept your face blank.

“He left you,” Clyde continued. “Just like everyone else will. Because you’re not worth the trouble.”

“That so?” you bit out. “Then why are you here?”

He stopped, looking over his shoulder with a smirk. “To clean up the mess you made.”

Clyde stepped back, giving a subtle nod to one of the men. The air seemed to thicken as the man pulled a knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the weak light.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away. If this was the end, you’d meet it head-on, with your head held high.

“Any last words?” Clyde asked, his tone almost bored.

You swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The memories of Logan’s rough hands holding yours, his gruff voice calling you darlin’ in that way that made your chest ache, his eyes softening in those rare moments when he let his guard down.

You thought of him now—miles away, caught up in something you couldn’t begin to understand. If he were here, he’d fight. He always did. But this time, you were on your own.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Go to hell.”

Clyde tilted his head, unimpressed. The man with the knife stepped forward, and you clenched your fists, bracing yourself for the inevitable.

The blade gleamed, catching the light one last time before it plunged toward you.

And then, there was only darkness.

---

Logan paced the bedroom; he had known something was off the second they got back. For one, you were nowhere in the mansion and your bag was sitting on the couch in the rec room.

Hank hesitantly stood by the doorframe for a few moments before speaking, “there’s a theory in quantum physics that time is immutable.” Logan paused his pacing as Hank continued, “it’s like a river—you can throw a pebble into it, create a ripple, but the current always corrects itself. No matter what you do, the river just… keeps flowing in the same direction.”

Logan let out a small scoff, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a fleeting smile. “The B-theory of time.”

Hank blinked, his brows furrowing. “You’re familiar with it?”

Logan shrugged, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed. “Yeah, I’ve heard it before. Someone once tried explaining it to me—something about all moments in time existing simultaneously. Past, present, future, all laid out like pages in a book.” He tilted his head, his gaze hardening. “Didn’t make it sound any less screwed up.”

Hank tilted his head slightly, caught off guard. “That’s a fairly accurate summation, Logan. I’m… surprised you retained that much.”

Logan’s lips twitched again, but his eyes darkened with a tinge of something that looked like regret. “Good teacher,” he muttered, his voice low. His mind flicked back to the quiet hours spent with you in the rec room at the mansion, your voice steady as you explained the theories of time and space with the kind of patience that used to drive him insane. “Good teacher,” he repeated, softer this time.

Hank didn’t press the matter, though curiosity lingered in his expression. Instead, he adjusted his glasses and continued. “Right. Well, the theory suggests that no matter how many changes we attempt to make, the timeline has a way of self-correcting. That ripple you caused? It’ll still flow back into the current, Logan. That’s why it’s imperative you stay focused on the larger mission—on stopping Mystique before—”

Logan cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “I know, McCoy. Believe me, I get it.” His voice was rougher now, frustration creeping into his tone. “But I can’t just stand here and do nothing. She’s out there—alone—because of me.” His jaw clenched, the muscles tightening like a vice. “I should’ve stayed with her.”

“And then what?” Hank countered, his voice measured but firm. “Thrown yourself headfirst into whatever danger awaits her without a plan? Gotten yourself killed before you even had the chance to stop Mystique? Would that have helped her, Logan? Or anyone else?”

Logan exhaled harshly, raking a hand through his hair. He hated when Hank was right—hated it even more because staying put went against every instinct he had. He’d lost you too many times before, and the idea of it happening again, here in this warped timeline, made his chest feel like it was caught in a vice.

“Look,” Hank said after a pause, his tone softening. “You’re not doing her—or yourself—any favors by acting recklessly. We need you tomorrow at the hearing. Mystique’s actions will set off a chain reaction if we don’t intervene, and that means we need all hands on deck.” He gave Logan a pointed look, then hesitated before adding, “Besides, the Y/N I met didn’t strike me as someone who’d go down without a fight.”

Logan’s gaze snapped to Hank, sharp and unyielding. “What’d you say?”

Hank shifted uncomfortably. “I mean… she was a little out of her element, sure, but she seemed resourceful. Strong-willed. Determined. She’s not just going to sit around waiting to be rescued, Logan.”

Logan’s shoulders relaxed slightly at Hank’s words, though his face remained guarded. He knew you—knew that fire inside you, even in this lifetime. You’d been through hell and still managed to crack that crooked smile, to tease him when he was too gruff for his own good. If anyone could find a way out of a bad situation, it was you.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried sick.

“She’s got guts,” Logan muttered, almost to himself. “Too much, sometimes.”

Hank adjusted his glasses again, watching Logan closely. “Then trust her to hold her own until we can deal with this together. Running off now would be counterproductive and, frankly, reckless.”

Logan let out a low growl of frustration, but he didn’t argue further. Deep down, he knew Hank was right. If he ran out of here now, he’d jeopardize everything—not just the mission, but the fragile thread of hope that had brought him to this point.

Still, the ache in his chest wouldn’t subside. It never did, not when it came to you.

“She’d better be okay,” he muttered, more to himself than to Hank. “Or I’ll—” His voice caught, and he shook his head. “Never mind.”

Hank didn’t respond immediately. He just watched as Logan sank into the chair by the window, his gaze distant.

For now, all Logan could do was wait.

---

Logan woke up to the sun shining through green curtains as he lay on his side, clutching his pillow. He turned over to look at the holographic clock on the other side of the bed, a stack of books on the table along with a single pen.

“The first time, ever I saw your face.”

He sat up, groggy as he looked at the familiar gold doorknob.

“I thought the sun,” Logan stood up and opened the door as a school bell rang and a kid walked out of their room. “Rose in your eyes.” He saw Bobby standing against a door frame as Rogue walked out and grabbed his hand, the two of them glancing over at Logan before walking away.

Logan walked by a classroom where Kitty was at the head of the room, a hologram in her hands, “Buckminster Fuller is a great example of an architect whose ideas were very similar to those of a utopian future. He would build structures that would work with nature, versus against it.”

He looked down the hall as Beast walked past him, clad in a brown suit, “morning, Logan. Late start,” he chuckled, as Logan watched him walk by.

Logan then walked down the stairs, seeing students converse with Storm. He continued his way down the stairs and into the open area, seeing familiar red hair leaning against the Professor’s open door.

Jean turned to look at him, “hey, Logan,” she softly called out as he glanced her way and back down the other hallways.

He saw a group of students walking huddled together before splitting apart briefly as you walked past them.

Logan’s breath hitched as you walked past the group of students, your hair catching the light streaming through the mansion’s tall windows. You didn’t notice him immediately, too focused on the stack of papers in your arms and the pen tucked behind your ear. He froze in place, his heart pounding like it hadn’t in years—decades, even.

You glanced up just as you passed him, pausing mid-step when your eyes met his. There was warmth in your gaze, that familiar spark he’d seen so many lifetimes ago, but this time it wasn’t tinged with hesitation or confusion. It was easy. Natural.

“There you are,” you said, a small smile gracing your lips as you adjusted the papers in your arms. “I was about to come looking for you. Late morning?”

Logan stared at you for a beat too long, the sound of your voice wrapping around him like a long-lost melody. He blinked, clearing his throat and trying to push past the lump that had formed there. “Yeah... guess so.”

Your smile widened, though your brow furrowed just slightly. “You okay, Lo?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

He managed a nod, though his throat felt tight. “Yeah, just... uh, still waking up, I guess.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him in that way you always used to when something seemed off. “Well, if you’re awake enough, maybe you could help me wrangle some of the kids for class?” You gestured toward the papers in your arms. “I need to grab a few more things, and Laura’s been trying to skip out on physics again. You didn’t even budge when the alarm went off this morning, but you’re lucky Scott owed you a favor, so he covered your history class—”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence when Logan’s arms wrapped around you, his hold firm but not crushing. His head burrowed into the crook of your neck, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to pause. You blinked, startled, the stack of papers in your arms wobbling precariously before you instinctively steadied them against your chest.

“Logan?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with concern and confusion. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer right away. His breathing was heavy, his body tense against yours as though he was clinging to something—or someone—he thought he’d lost. The warmth of his presence, his scent of leather and pine, was familiar, but this intensity was new.

You let the silence hang for a moment, your free hand instinctively lifting to rest on his shoulder. “Lo,” you tried again, your tone softer now, laced with the kind of patience that only years together had nurtured. “Talk to me.”

Logan pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, but his hands remained firm on your waist. His eyes were wild, scanning your face like he was searching for proof that you were real. For a fleeting second, you caught something raw in his expression—something vulnerable.

“You’re here,” he muttered, almost to himself. His voice was hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken in days. “You’re… really here.”

Your brows knitted together as you tilted your head, trying to piece together what could have possibly spurred this reaction. “Of course I’m here,” you said with a small, hesitant laugh, your hand sliding from his shoulder to his cheek. “Where else would I be?”

Before Logan could respond, the unmistakable sound of small, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. A high-pitched voice followed, cutting through the moment like a pebble skipping across still water.

“Daddy!”

Logan froze. His hands fell away from your waist as a little girl with dark hair barreled toward the two of you, her pigtails bouncing with each step. She clung to Logan’s leg without hesitation, looking up at him with the wide, innocent eyes of someone who knew no fear or doubt.

Gabby.

The name surfaced in Logan’s mind like a fragment from a dream, though it came with no context—no memories to anchor it. He stared down at the child, his breath catching as she grinned up at him.

“Daddy, I found you!” she declared triumphantly, like it was a great accomplishment. “Laura said you were being slow again.”

You chuckled softly, crouching down to ruffle Gabby’s hair. “What did we say about calling your dad slow?” you teased gently, though there was no real reprimand in your tone.

Gabby giggled, leaning into your touch. “Only when it’s funny?”

“Exactly,” you replied with a smirk before standing again and glancing at Logan, who still hadn’t moved or spoken. “Lo, you okay?” you asked again, your concern deepening.

Logan’s gaze flicked between you and Gabby, his chest tightening. The ring on your finger caught the light as you moved, and for the first time, he noticed it—the familiar band of gold he’d carried for over a century.

His heart stuttered. You’re wearing it.

“Logan?” you pressed, stepping closer again. Gabby, still holding onto his leg, tilted her head in confusion.

Logan swallowed hard, forcing himself to push past the whirlwind in his mind. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice strained but steady enough. “I’m fine.”

You didn’t look convinced, but you didn’t push him. Instead, you nodded toward the stack of papers in your arms. “You sure? Because if you’re about to have an existential crisis, I need you to hold off until after you help me track down Laura. Deal?”

Logan blinked, your teasing tone pulling him out of his daze. He managed a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Deal.”

Gabby tugged at his pant leg, her face scrunched in determination. “Daddy, can we get pancakes after? Laura said she’d eat ten, but I bet I could eat twelve.”

You snorted softly, looking between Gabby and Logan with an amused smile. “You’re not actually gonna let her eat twelve pancakes, are you?”

Logan’s lips twitched, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll see,” he said gruffly, his mind still miles away as he tried to make sense of everything.

You gave him another look, your brows furrowing slightly, but you let it go for now. “Come on,” you said, shifting the papers in your arms. “Let’s get this day started.”

As you turned to lead Gabby toward the stairs, Logan lingered for a moment, his eyes fixed on the gold band on your finger. His thoughts churned, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a heavy fog.

He needed answers. And he knew exactly who to talk to.

---

Logan pushed open the door to Charles’s office without knocking, his usual roughness softened just enough by the turmoil bubbling beneath his skin. Charles, sitting calmly at his desk with his hands folded, looked up with a raised brow.

“Logan,” Charles greeted, his tone patient but curious. “I wasn’t expecting you so early. Is everything alright?”

Logan stepped inside, closing the door behind him before glancing over his shoulder. He needed to make sure you hadn’t followed. When he was satisfied, he turned back to Charles, his jaw tightening.

“No,” Logan said simply. “We need to talk. Now.”

Charles’s brow furrowed, and he gestured to the chair in front of him. “Please, sit. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Logan ignored the chair, pacing instead. “I woke up this morning, and I—” He dragged a hand down his face, struggling to find the words. “Chuck, I ain’t supposed to be here. This… this timeline, it ain’t mine.”

Charles’s expression shifted, his calm demeanor replaced with something more serious. “I see,” he said carefully. “Go on.”

“You remember what Kitty did,” Logan said, stopping to lean on the edge of the desk. “Sending my mind back to ’73, to fix everything. To stop the Sentinels.”

“Yes,” Charles replied, his voice steady. “And you succeeded, Logan. The world you’re in now is a result of that success.”

Logan’s laugh was bitter, shaking his head. “Then why the hell don’t I remember it, huh? Why do I remember… all of it? The Sentinels. The Phoenix. Y/N—” His voice cracked, and he looked away, his fists clenching. “She died, Chuck. In my timeline, she died. Jean, too. All of you.”

Charles regarded him quietly, his hands still folded. “Logan, the mind is a complicated thing. It’s possible that in the process of returning you to this point in time, fragments of your original timeline have remained intact.”

“Fragments?” Logan scoffed, pushing off the desk to pace again. “Chuck, this ain’t fragments. I remember it all. I remember her dying six times, dammit. I remember the look on her face when she—” He stopped himself, his breathing ragged.

Charles’s expression softened. “Logan, this is your life now. Whatever timeline you came from, whatever you remember, it’s in the past. This is your reality now. Y/N is alive. Jean is alive. You have a family, a home.”

Logan’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Yeah, but it ain’t mine. This ring—” He held up his own hand with his own ring, the band of gold catching the light. “I didn’t put it on her finger, Chuck. Some other version of me did. And I don’t know how to be him.”

Charles leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but firm. “Then perhaps it’s time you learned. For her. For your family.”

Logan stared at him, his chest tight. He wanted to argue, to push back, but the truth of Charles’s words settled heavy in his gut. He’d fought so hard to change the future, to make sure you and everyone else had a chance at a better life. Now that it was here, he didn’t know how to live in it.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling shakily. “What do I do, Chuck?”

Charles smiled faintly. “You take it one day at a time, Logan. And you start by going back to her.”

---

You stood in the Professor’s office, your arms crossed, the faint cherry gloss on your lips catching the sunlight through the large windows. You tilted your head slightly, studying Logan as he leaned against the desk, his expression unreadable but tense.

“So…” you began, your voice soft but steady, “you’re from a different timeline? One where none of this happened?”

Logan exhaled heavily, running a hand through his unruly hair. “Yeah, sweetheart. That’s about the size of it.”

Your gaze flicked between him and Charles, who sat calmly behind his desk, his hands folded in front of him. “And in that timeline…” you hesitated, your voice faltering slightly. “What happened to me?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his eyes briefly darting away from yours before he forced himself to meet your gaze. The weight of his memories hung between you, unspoken but palpable.

“You didn’t make it,” he admitted, his voice low and gravelly.

The room felt colder, the air heavier as his words settled over you. You shifted slightly, gripping your own arms as if to steady yourself.

“But not this time,” Charles interjected gently, his calm voice breaking the silence. “This timeline is different, Y/N. You survived, as did many others who didn’t in Logan’s original timeline.”

You turned to Charles, your brow furrowing. “How? How is that even possible? Timelines aren’t just malleable—”

“They are when someone like Kitty Pryde is involved,” Charles replied, his tone steady but kind. “Logan changed the future, which altered the past. But it seems his mind retained the memories of his original timeline when he was brought back.”

You looked at Logan, your head spinning as you tried to wrap your mind around what they were telling you. “So… you’re saying that everything I remember—all the years we’ve been together, raising Gabby and Laura—they’re real, but to you, they’re…”

“New,” Logan finished for you. He pushed off the desk, his hands going to his hips as he paced the room. “To me, darlin’, this—” he gestured vaguely at the mansion around him, “—this is all brand new. The last thing I remember before waking up this morning was bein’ in 1973, tryin’ to stop Mystique from killin’ Trask.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The Logan standing before you was so familiar, yet so… not. He was the same man you’d spent decades with, and yet he wasn’t.

“You’re still you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan stopped pacing, turning to look at you. His gaze softened slightly, the hard edges of his frustration melting away. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Still me.”

“But you don’t remember Gabby or Laura,” you said, a pang of sadness creeping into your voice. “You don’t remember us.”

Logan’s expression twisted with guilt. “No, sweetheart,” he admitted. “Not the way I should. But I’m tryin’. I swear to you, I’m gonna figure this out.”

You stepped closer to him, your glasses sliding slightly down your nose as you looked up into his eyes. “You’re not alone in this, Logan,” you said softly. “We’ll figure it out together.”

He stared at you, his throat tightening at the unwavering trust in your eyes. Slowly, he reached out, his large hand brushing against yours before taking it fully. “Thanks, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice rough but sincere.

Charles cleared his throat gently, drawing your attention. “The bond you two share has persisted across lifetimes,” he said. “It is not surprising that it remains strong, even now.”

You glanced back at Logan, your fingers still entwined with his. “I guess it’s just one more thing we’ve survived together,” you said with a faint smile.

Logan’s lips quirked upward, just barely. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess so.”

But as the three of you stood there, Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a much bigger challenge. For now, though, he let himself hold onto your hand, grounding himself in the one constant he’d always known: you.

---

Laura stared across the table at Logan, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of his face as if she were trying to find something different, something off. Meanwhile, Gabby’s bright voice filled the dining room.

“And then, they just grow back their limbs! Like, if an axolotl loses a leg or even its tail, it’s all, poof! Fixed!” Gabby made an exaggerated explosion motion with her hands, her fork clattering against her plate. “Isn’t that cool, Daddy?”

Logan blinked, dragging himself out of his thoughts. “Uh, yeah, kid. Real cool.” His voice was gruff but softer than usual as he glanced at her. Gabby beamed, apparently satisfied with his half-hearted response, and took another bite of her pancake.

“Dad doesn’t even know what an axolotl is,” Laura said flatly, her gaze never leaving him.

Gabby gasped, scandalized. “Laura! Of course he does! He’s Daddy! He knows everything!”

Logan scratched the back of his neck, an awkward chuckle slipping out. “Well, I wouldn’t say everything…”

Laura narrowed her eyes slightly, leaning back in her chair. “You’re acting weird.”

“Laura,” you said gently, walking into the room with a cup of coffee in hand. You leaned against the doorway, your glasses slipping down your nose just a touch as you looked at your daughter. “Be nice.”

“She’s not wrong,” Logan muttered under his breath, but you caught it and shot him a warning look.

Laura crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “He didn’t even laugh at Gabby’s joke about Mom’s coffee yesterday. That’s how you know something’s wrong.”

You hid your smile behind your mug. “To be fair, it wasn’t a great joke, Gabby.”

“It was hilarious!” Gabby protested, slapping her hands on the table for emphasis.

“Sure, sweetie,” you said with a chuckle, walking over to Logan. Your hand found his shoulder as you leaned down slightly. “Why don’t you two finish breakfast? We’ll be right back.”

Logan shot you a look but didn’t argue as you guided him out of the room, your hand lingering on his arm for a moment before you let go. You didn’t stop until you were in the hallway, far enough from the dining room that the girls couldn’t hear you.

“You’re gonna have to stop looking like a deer in headlights every time Gabby says something,” you said quietly, your tone soft but firm. “She’s going to figure it out if you keep that up.”

Logan let out a long sigh, leaning against the wall. “I’m tryin’, sweetheart. It’s just…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“Overwhelming?” you finished for him.

“Yeah. That.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes meeting yours. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. I don’t remember gettin’ married or havin’ kids. And now, I’ve got a eleven-year-old givin’ me the third degree and a five-year-old who thinks I hung the moon.”

“They’re your daughters, Logan,” you said softly. “And they adore you. Just… be yourself. You’ve always been a good dad to them. That hasn’t changed.”

Logan looked at you, his expression a mixture of uncertainty and determination. “And you?”

“What about me?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“How do I do right by you?” His voice was low, the vulnerability in it catching you off guard.

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his. “You’re already doin’ it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll figure this out together. Just like we always do.”

He let out a low huff, leaning his side against the wall, “well, if I have to hear one more word about an axolotl and their gills, I might lose it.”

You leaned into the wall, mimicking Logan’s stance, your lips twitching upward as you adjusted your glasses. “Actually, axolotls have both gills and lungs, so they can breathe underwater and directly from the air. But they rely on their gills more than their lungs because they’re primarily aquatic. Oh, and their gills are those frilly things you see sticking out of their necks—external gills, which are super rare in vertebrates…”

Logan’s eyebrows rose slowly, and a wry grin began to tug at the corner of his mouth as your words spilled out faster than you seemed to realize.

“And did you know,” you continued, your voice picking up slightly as you adjusted your glasses again, “they stay in a juvenile state their whole lives? It’s called neoteny, and—”

Logan finally let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, darlin’, I get it. You’re where Gabby gets it from.”

You paused mid-ramble, your brow furrowing as you looked up at him. “Gets what?”

“The whole talk a mile a minute about stuff that makes the rest of us feel like idiots thing,” he teased, his tone gruff but warm. “She starts goin’ on about somethin’, an’ it’s like watchin’ a little tornado of facts. Now I know where she gets it.”

Your cheeks flushed slightly, a mix of amusement and bashfulness flashing across your face. “I don’t talk that much.”

Logan arched a brow, his grin widening just a touch. “Sure, sweetheart. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

You huffed, pushing lightly against his chest with the back of your hand, though your lips tugged into a reluctant smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you’re still stuck with me,” he teased, his tone laced with an unexpected softness.

For a moment, you both stood there in the hallway, the din of breakfast chatter echoing faintly behind the door. Logan’s eyes lingered on you, the faint cherry gloss on your lips catching his attention again as sunlight streamed in through the nearby window.

“I really mean it, darlin’,” Logan said after a beat, his voice dipping into something deeper. “You’ve got no idea how much I appreciate you holdin’ this together. All this…” He gestured vaguely, his expression faltering for a second. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Your smile softened, and you reached for his hand instinctively. “We’ve been through worse, Logan. Together. We always find a way.”

Logan’s gaze dropped to your intertwined hands, the touch grounding him. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Always.”

Before the moment could settle further, Scott and Jean walked past the two of you, entering the kitchen. You grabbed Logan’s hand, “c’mon, I want you to see somethin’.”

You pulled Logan to the doorway of the kitchen, motioning for him to stay quiet. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t resist as he leaned slightly into the frame beside you, peeking into the room. Scott was at the counter, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, while Jean stood nearby, polishing an apple against her sleeve.

“Why are we standin’ here like—” Logan began, but you held up a finger to shush him.

“Wait for it,” you murmured, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

From behind the island, Gabby and Laura crouched in near-perfect silence. Gabby’s face was alight with glee as Laura whispered instructions, holding a small device that looked suspiciously like something Jones might have helped them cobble together.

Logan squinted. “What the hell are they—”

“Shh!” you hissed, suppressing a grin as Laura pressed a button on the device.

The coffee maker on the counter suddenly sputtered and hissed, steam pouring out in dramatic bursts as it began to shake. Scott froze mid-sip, frowning at the machine.

“What the—” Scott leaned in cautiously, placing his mug down.

With a loud pop, a stream of glitter shot out from the coffee maker, spraying directly onto Scott’s chest and face. His entire upper body sparkled in gold and silver flecks as he stumbled back, coughing in surprise.

Gabby popped up from behind the counter, arms thrown in the air triumphantly. “Success!”

Laura stood beside her, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. “Glitter bomb: 100% effective.”

Logan stared, wide-eyed, as Scott wiped at his face in a futile attempt to rid himself of the glitter. “Girls,” Scott said, his voice low and measured in a tone that suggested he was summoning all of his patience, “what did I say about tamperin’ with the coffee maker?”

Gabby, undeterred, pointed at him dramatically. “You said don’t do it. But you never said we couldn’t improve it.”

Jean bit into her apple, turning slightly away to hide her laughter behind a hand.

“You let them do this?” Scott asked, glaring at her.

“I let them? Scott, they’re your nieces,” Jean said smoothly, not bothering to hide the amusement in her tone.

“They’re your nieces too!” Scott protested, but Jean just shrugged, taking another bite of her apple.

Logan let out a low chuckle beside you, shaking his head. “They’re somethin’ else.”

You grinned, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “They’re just like you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know exactly what it means,” you teased. “You’re as much of a troublemaker as they are. Don’t think I haven’t seen the pranks you’ve pulled.”

“Pranks? Me?” Logan’s expression feigned innocence, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Right,” you drawled, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve just coincidentally passed on all your mischief genes to Laura and Gabby?”

Logan let out a soft laugh, his gaze flicking back to the kitchen where Gabby was now dancing around Scott, singing, “Uncle Scott is the glitter king!” at the top of her lungs.

Laura crossed her arms, clearly pleased with her handiwork. “Don’t worry. It’s biodegradable glitter,” she said in a tone that suggested she didn’t actually care about Scott’s glitter predicament but wanted to seem magnanimous.

Scott groaned, his voice rising in frustration. “You two better clean this up. And my shirt. And my—” He gestured vaguely at his glitter-covered face.

Gabby giggled. “Sure, Uncle Scott. Right after breakfast.”

Scott turned to Jean for backup, but she just shrugged again. “You’ll be fine, Scott. You’ve been through worse.”

“Not worse than this,” Scott muttered darkly, picking at a gold fleck on his visor.

You stifled another laugh as Logan crossed his arms, watching the scene unfold with an almost paternal fondness. “They really only prank Summers?”

You nodded, grinning. “Every time. Jean’s always off-limits, but Scott? Fair game. Laura says it builds his character.”

Logan shook his head, still smiling. “Kid’s got my sense of humor, all right.”

“See?” you said, leaning closer to him. “They’re just like you.”

Logan glanced down at you, his expression softening as his gaze lingered. “Guess I’ve got a lot to live up to, huh?”

“You already do,” you said quietly, your hand brushing against his. “More than you know.”

Before Logan could respond, Gabby’s excited voice interrupted. “Mommy! Daddy! Did you see? Uncle Scott’s a walking disco ball!”

You turned just as Gabby bolted toward you both, her small arms outstretched. Logan instinctively crouched to catch her as she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Did you like it, Daddy?” Gabby asked, her face bright with anticipation.

Logan hesitated, his arms tightening slightly around her as he glanced at you for guidance. You smiled, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah, kid,” Logan said finally, his voice gruff but warm. “You got him good.”

Gabby beamed, hugging him tighter before pulling back to look at him. “Laura says we should do water balloons next time. But I think paint bombs would be cooler.”

Logan chuckled, standing with her still in his arms. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Gabby.”

Gabby laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder. You watched the two of them, your chest tightening at the sight of Logan holding her so naturally, even if his memories of her weren’t there yet.

Logan caught your eye, his expression unreadable but intense, as if he were trying to piece together the life he couldn’t remember but was already a part of.

For now, you just smiled, stepping closer to place a hand on his arm. “Come on,” you said softly. “Let’s get back in there before Scott recruits you to clean up his glitter.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, his grip on Gabby firm as he followed you back into the kitchen, the warmth of the moment settling around the three of you like a quiet promise.

---

Jean sighed and stepped away, her hands falling from Logan’s temples as she crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, Logan. There’s not much else I can do.”

Logan remained seated, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands clenched together. “So, that’s it? Nothin’? Not even a flicker?”

Jean’s expression softened, but there was a hint of frustration in her voice, more directed at herself than him. “You’ve got a wall in your mind, Logan. One I can’t break through without risking your memories now. If I push too hard, I could do more harm than good.”

He let out a low growl, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Feels like I’m livin’ someone else’s life. Like it ain’t mine.”

“You are living your life,” Jean insisted gently. “This is you. You’re just missing… the journey that got you here.”

Logan ran a hand down his face, leaning back in the chair. His gaze drifted to the floor, but his thoughts were miles away. He could feel the weight of everything—the ring on your hand, the way Gabby called him ‘daddy,’ Laura’s quiet smirk when she saw him, the way you looked at him with such love and familiarity. It wasn’t foreign; it was right. But it was also wrong because he didn’t remember any of it.

Jean knelt beside him, her voice quieter now. “You’ve built something beautiful here, Logan. Something you fought for, even if you can’t remember how. Maybe instead of chasing what’s missing, you should try to live in what’s here.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his mind battling with itself. Before he could respond, a voice broke the heavy silence.

“Logan?” Your voice was soft but steady from the doorway.

His head snapped up, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “Hey, darlin’.”

Jean rose, excusing herself with a subtle nod toward you. As she passed, she gave your arm a gentle squeeze, her own way of offering support, before disappearing down the hall.

You stepped inside, watching Logan closely as you approached. “How are you feeling?”

“Like my head’s been through the ringer,” he muttered, trying to muster a smirk but failing. “Jean couldn’t find much.”

You perched on the arm of the chair, your hand instinctively reaching for his shoulder. “It’s okay,” you said softly, your thumb tracing small circles over his flannel. “You don’t have to remember everything all at once.”

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “That’s just it. I don’t remember any of it—marryin’ you, findin’ Laura, havin’ Gabby. None of it’s mine.”

Your heart ached at the rawness in his voice, but you squeezed his shoulder gently. “It is yours. Maybe not in the way you think, but it’s yours, Logan. We’re yours.”

He looked up at you then, his eyes darker, clouded with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re takin’ this awful well.”

You smiled faintly, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead. “I told you when we got married, remember? That no matter what happens, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t remember that, either,” he admitted gruffly, though there was a flicker of warmth in his voice.

“Well,” you teased lightly, trying to ease the tension, “lucky for you, I do.”

Logan’s hand came up, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but the weight of his grip spoke volumes.

You brought him into your side, his head resting below your collarbone on your chest, and a small, bittersweet smile crept onto your lips. “It’s kinda ironic if you think about it.”

Logan’s voice was muffled against you, but there was a familiar gruffness to it. “What is?”

“This,” you said softly, one hand brushing through his hair while the other traced idle circles on his shoulder. “You remember all those lives I don’t, and now we’re here, and I’m the one who remembers… but you don’t.”

Logan let out a humorless chuckle, his arms tightening around your waist. “Yeah, darlin’, real funny.”

“Ironic,” you corrected, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, though the ache in your chest lingered. “Not funny.”

Logan exhaled deeply, his breath warm against your collarbone. “Guess I deserve that, huh? All those times, I remembered you, and now you’re stuck rememberin’ for me.”

You stilled your hand for a moment, then leaned back just enough to make him look at you. His eyes were darker than usual, shadowed with frustration and something deeper you couldn’t name. “You don’t deserve this, Logan,” you said firmly. “Don’t ever think that.”

He searched your face, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “Feels like I do,” he murmured. “Every time I’ve lost you… it’s been my fault somehow. Every damn time. And now—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as though trying to dislodge the thought.

“And now,” you said, finishing for him, “you haven’t lost me.”

Logan’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing unconsciously over the fabric of your shirt where his hand rested on your waist. “Not yet.”

“Not at all,” you said, your voice steady. “You’ve got me, Logan. I’m right here.”

His lips twitched, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For now.”

You sighed, cupping his cheek and guiding his gaze back to yours when it started to drift. “Logan. Stop. We’ve been married for nearly twenty years. I know this is… a lot. It’s a lot for me, too. But you don’t have to figure it all out today, or tomorrow, or even next week.”

He huffed a small laugh, his hand moving to rest over yours. “You always this patient?”

“Only with you,” you teased gently, though the warmth in your voice was genuine. “So don’t make me regret it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and for a moment, his smirk was almost real.

You smiled back, letting the silence settle for a few beats before Logan’s arms tightened around you again, pulling you closer. His head rested against your chest, his body warm and solid against yours, and for a moment, you just held him.

---

Footsteps thundered across the broken ground, and then he was there. Logan dropped to his knees beside you, his hands immediately reaching for you, shaking you gently but urgently. “Sweetheart, no, no—open your eyes,” he pleaded, his voice cracking as his hands moved from your face to your shoulders, searching for signs of life.

Your body was limp in his arms, your chest still, your face losing color.

Logan’s breaths came in short, harsh gasps as he pulled you against him, cradling you like you might slip away entirely if he let go. “Y/N,” he whispered, the single word a broken prayer, an unbearable weight of grief choking him. His hands shook as they smoothed over your hair, as though trying to coax you back to him with touch alone.

He didn’t notice Ororo land nearby, didn’t register her sharp intake of breath as she took in the scene. Her hand came up to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror, but she didn’t approach. Behind her, Bobby and Kitty stood frozen, their expressions stricken, but they too stayed back. Even Peter, with his usual strength and calm, had no words.

Logan didn’t care that they were there. Didn’t care about anything except the motionless weight in his arms. He rocked you slightly, his forehead pressing against yours as his ragged breaths turned into choked sobs. “You weren’t supposed to—damn it, you weren’t supposed to do this,” he growled, his voice breaking as he fought against the tears burning in his eyes. “Not this time. Not again.”

Logan pressed his lips to your forehead, his hands shaking as they cupped your face. “Come on, darlin’,” he whispered, his voice soft and cracked. “You’re stronger than this. You’re too stubborn to leave me. Just—just come back.”

The others stood frozen, unable to move, unable to interrupt the devastating scene unfolding before them. Ororo’s hand clutched her chest, tears streaking down her face as she turned away, giving Logan what little privacy she could in this moment of unbearable pain.

But Logan didn’t notice. He couldn’t notice. His world had narrowed to you—the unbearable stillness of your body, the haunting silence that surrounded you now.

He didn’t let go, even as the destruction around them finally began to settle, the last vestiges of Jean’s power fading into nothingness. His arms tightened around you, his forehead pressing to yours again as he whispered brokenly, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save you. I’m so damn sorry.”

Time seemed to stand still in the worst possible way. For the first time in his long, painful life, Logan felt completely and utterly powerless. The ring he’d carried for over a century burned like a brand against his chest, a cruel reminder of all the promises he’d never been able to keep.

Logan buried his face against your neck, his voice raw as he whispered, “I was gonna tell you. About the ring. About everything. You—you deserved to know.” His thumb brushed over your cheek, as if he could will the life back into you.

He pulled back, his tear-streaked face contorted in anguish as he gazed down at you. “I love you,” he said, his voice breaking on every syllable. “I’ve loved you through every lifetime, and I’ll love you in the next one, too. But please, sweetheart, don’t make me wait again. Not this time. Please.”

His hands trembled as he touched your cheek again, his thumb brushing over your skin like it might bring you back. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “I’ll always love you.”

But you didn’t move. Your chest didn’t rise. You were gone.

Logan’s breath hitched as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead—one last desperate, lingering moment of tenderness. When he pulled back, his gaze swept over your still features, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and devastation.

Behind him, Ororo, Bobby, Kitty, and Peter stood at a distance, their faces drawn with grief. None of them moved to intervene. They knew better than to intrude on this moment, on Logan’s anguish.

The air felt impossibly heavy as Logan shifted, gathering your lifeless form into his arms. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though handling something too precious to break further. He cradled you close, his head bowing as he let out a shuddering breath. The others watched as he rose to his feet, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, though he showed no sign of it.

“Logan…” Ororo began softly, stepping forward.

He didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes were locked on you, his focus unwavering. Without a word, he turned away, carrying you toward the bridge. There was no Blackbird to take them home—Jean’s power had obliterated it along with so much else—but Logan didn’t seem to care about the logistics. His only concern was you.

---

Logan jerked awake, gasping, his body tense and drenched in cold sweat. The dim light of the bedroom barely illuminated his surroundings, but he didn’t need it to know where he was. The warmth beside him, the faint scent of your cherry lip gloss lingering in the air—those were enough to remind him. This was 2023. You were alive.

He turned his head to look at you, his breathing still uneven. You were curled on your side, your glasses resting on the nightstand, your hand loosely clutching the blanket. Peaceful. Alive.

“Logan?” your voice, soft and drowsy, broke the silence. You stirred, sensing his distress even in your half-asleep state. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed hard, running a hand down his face. “Nothin’, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice rough and unconvincing. “Go back to sleep.”

But you sat up anyway, your hair slightly mussed, your gaze focusing on him even without your glasses. “You had another nightmare, didn’t you?” You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Was it… bad?”

Logan closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. He wanted to lie, to brush it off and tell you he was fine, but the weight of the memory still clung to him like a shadow he couldn’t shake. “Yeah,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without hesitation, you slid closer to him, wrapping your arms around his torso. “It’s okay,” you murmured, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’m here.”

His body stiffened at first, the vulnerability of the moment making his instincts scream to pull away, but then he let out a shaky breath and folded you into his arms. The solid warmth of you against him—the weight of your presence—was like a lifeline, anchoring him back to the present.

“I dreamed about… losin’ you,” he said after a long moment, his voice low and raw. “It—it was like I could feel it happenin’ all over again.”

Your heart ached at the pain in his tone, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you tightened your hold on him, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. “You didn’t lose me,” you whispered. “I’m right here, Logan.”

His arms tightened around you as though he needed to remind himself you were real. After a few moments, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching your face like he was memorizing every detail. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“I gotta hold you,” he said, his voice gruff but almost pleading. “Just let me—” His words faltered, and he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was desperate yet tender, like he was pouring all the fear and love in his heart into the connection.

You kissed him back without hesitation, your hands resting on his chest. But when he pulled back only to kiss you again—this time slower, deeper—you pulled away slightly, just enough to catch your breath. “Logan,” you murmured, your voice gentle, “are you sure you’re okay?”

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Just lemme kiss you, please,” he said softly, his voice almost breaking. “Need to feel you. Need to know you’re here.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you nodded, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “I’m here,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his again, reassuring him with every touch that you weren’t going anywhere.

Time seemed to stop as you stayed like that, locked in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His hands moved to your waist, holding you securely, while yours stayed on his face, grounding him. Eventually, you pulled back, your noses brushing, your breaths mingling.

“You wanna talk about it?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along his jawline.

Logan hesitated, his eyes flickering with something raw and unspoken. “Not yet,” he admitted, his voice thick. “Just… don’t leave me tonight, darlin’.”

You shook your head, offering him a soft smile despite the emotion welling in your chest. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, wrapping your arms around him again.

---

The Blackbird hummed steadily, the low vibration underscoring the tense silence among the team. You glanced toward Logan, his expression hard and unreadable as he stared out the small window. He hadn’t said much since takeoff, and you didn’t push him. Instead, you’d focused on Jean, who was reviewing the mission details, and Scott, who’d been unusually quiet.

“I can handle this,” Logan had said when you vouched for him earlier. You hadn’t doubted him then, and you didn’t now. But Scott’s skepticism hung heavy in the cabin, evident in every glance he shot Logan’s way.

You let out a soft breath and shifted in your seat, nudging Logan’s arm with your elbow. “Hey,” you said quietly, leaning in. “You good?”

Logan turned his head, his eyes meeting yours for a moment. He nodded, though his jaw stayed tight. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m fine.”

You didn’t buy it, but you let it go. For now.

Scott’s voice cut through the tension. “We’re approaching the drop zone. Everyone stay sharp. This should be quick, but let’s not get sloppy.”

“Sloppy?” Logan muttered under his breath. “We don’t do sloppy.”

Scott shot him a look from the cockpit but didn’t respond, and you bit back a small smile despite the nerves fluttering in your chest.

---

The mission was supposed to be simple. Extract intel, neutralize threats, and get out. But as usual, things didn’t go as planned.

The team moved as a unit through the labyrinthine corridors of the facility, the dim lighting casting long shadows that danced with every flicker of movement. Logan was at the front, claws out, his senses leading the way. You stayed close, your focus split between him and the others.

“Jean, you got eyes on the server room?” Scott’s voice crackled through the comms.

“About twenty meters ahead,” Jean replied, her voice calm despite the rising tension.

Logan’s claws retracted with a snikt as he held up a hand, signaling everyone to stop. His nose twitched, and his head tilted slightly. “Something’s off,” he murmured, his voice low.

Before anyone could ask what, the ground beneath your feet rumbled, and the corridor ahead exploded in a burst of heat and light. You stumbled back, shielding your face, as alarms blared throughout the facility.

“Damn it!” Scott barked. “It’s a trap!”

Logan was already moving, his claws gleaming as he launched himself toward the first wave of attackers. “Get to the server room!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll clear the way!”

“Logan, wait—” But he was gone, a blur of fury and precision as he tore through the enemy.

You exchanged a quick glance with Jean and Ororo before taking off in the opposite direction with them. The mission had gone sideways, but there was no time to panic. Focus was key.

---

You weren’t sure how long it had been—minutes? Hours? The battle had stretched into chaos, and every step felt like a fight to stay alive. You found yourself separated from the others, the air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Your powers buzzed beneath your skin, a familiar warning. You’d been careful not to overuse them, knowing the toll it took, but the situation left you little choice. Cornered by a group of heavily armed soldiers, you raised your hands, time itself seeming to shudder as you concentrated.

The soldiers froze mid-step, their weapons hanging suspended in the air. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you pushed harder, distorting the flow of time around you. The strain was immediate, your body protesting as you manipulated the anomaly.

“Y/N!” Logan’s voice cut through the haze, rough and urgent. He appeared out of the smoke, his claws dripping red. His eyes widened when he saw you, the flickering distortion around you making it clear you were at your limit.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was strained. “Go help the others.”

“Like hell,” Logan growled, rushing to your side. His hand gripped your arm firmly but gently. “Stop this. You’re gonna tear yourself apart.”

“I can handle it,” you insisted, though your knees buckled slightly under the weight of your own power.

Logan didn’t argue. Instead, he scooped you up with a gentleness that belied his strength, cradling you against his chest. The anomaly wavered, then shattered, the soldiers collapsing as time resumed. But the damage was done.

As the world around you stabilized, you felt a strange, disorienting pull in your mind—like something had snapped and splintered all at once.

Logan froze mid-step, a strangled noise escaping his throat. His grip on you tightened as his body went rigid, his breathing shallow and erratic.

“Logan?” you murmured, your voice weak. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes darted wildly as memories surged through his mind—memories that didn’t belong to the man he’d been moments ago.

A wedding. Your smile, brighter than the sun, as you held his hands. The weight of the gold ring he’d finally placed on your finger after lifetimes of waiting.

Laughter. Laura’s tiny hands clutching his shirt as he carried her on his shoulders, her giggles echoing through the halls of the mansion. Gabby’s wide grin as she showed him a picture she’d drawn of the four of you—her family.

Peace. The quiet nights on the porch, your head resting on his shoulder as the stars twinkled overhead.

Love.

A life.

A family.

Logan stumbled, dropping to his knees as the memories overwhelmed him. They were vivid and unrelenting, a rush of emotion and experience that left him gasping for air.

Your hands trembled as you knelt beside Logan, panic bubbling in your chest. His body shook, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. You reached out, gripping his shoulders. “Logan! Please—what’s wrong? Talk to me!”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were wide and unfocused, darting as though he was watching something invisible and overwhelming. His claws had retracted, his hands pressed flat to the ground like he was trying to anchor himself.

“Logan…” Your voice cracked, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what I did—please, just say something.”

His breath hitched sharply, and he finally looked at you, though his gaze was distant, almost haunted. “I… I can’t—” His voice was rough, fractured, as though he was choking on the words. “It’s… I remember.”

You froze. The blood roaring in your ears was nearly deafening. “What do you mean? Remember what?”

Logan shook his head as if trying to clear it, but his face was pale, his features twisted with a mix of disbelief and something raw—grief? Love? Fear? You couldn’t tell.

“It’s us.” His hands reached for you instinctively, his calloused palms cupping your face. “I see you. I see…” His words faltered, and his gaze flickered like he was staring into a memory you couldn’t reach. “The wedding. Laura. Gabby. God, darlin’, I see all of it. I feel it.”

Your heart clenched, your breath catching in your throat. “You remember this life?” you whispered, your hands resting on his wrists.

Logan’s eyes, normally so sharp and guarded, now brimmed with something far more vulnerable—tears threatening to spill as his gaze bore into yours. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice rough, choked. “Not just bits and pieces… all of it.”

Tears continued to blur your vision as you searched his face, struggling to process his words. His hands stayed on your face, steady even though they were trembling slightly, and his eyes darted over yours like he was trying to memorize every detail, afraid you might vanish if he looked away for even a second.

“Logan…” Your voice wavered, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. “You… remember everything?”

He nodded, the movement jerky, uncoordinated. “Yeah. Every damn thing,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “I remember… us. Our life. Laura. Gabby. The day I put this ring on your finger.” His thumb brushed against the gold band on your left hand, his expression flickering between awe and devastation. “I remember it all, darlin’. And it’s like I’ve been livin’ two lives at once.”

Your heart twisted, torn between relief and worry. Relief that he was remembering the life you’d built together—your family, your home—but worry because you knew what this meant for him. Logan wasn’t just remembering. He was reconciling two lifetimes, one full of loss and pain, and one where he’d finally found peace.

You cupped his face now, your hands trembling against his rough, stubbled cheeks. “Logan,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the fight still raging in the facility. “You’re here. You’re with me. With us. And that’s all that matters.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, and you could see the storm of emotions swirling behind them—grief, guilt, love, hope. “It’s real,” he said, almost like he needed to hear it to believe it. “This… all of it… it’s real. I didn’t lose you this time.”

“No,” you murmured, tears spilling freely now. “You didn’t lose me. You’ve got me, Logan. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands tightened ever so slightly on your face, his forehead lowering until it rested gently against yours. His breath hitched, and you felt the faintest tremor run through him. “I lost you six times, sweetheart. Six times. I held you in my arms while you—” His voice broke, and he sucked in a sharp breath like he was trying to keep himself together. “I can’t… I can’t lose you again. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” you said firmly, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. “You won’t, Logan. This is our life. Our family. And you’re not gonna lose me. Not now, not ever.”

For a long moment, the two of you just stayed like that, kneeling on the cold floor in the middle of a war zone, holding on to each other like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Finally, Logan spoke again, his voice quieter now, though no less weighted. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his tone raw. “I remember us, but I don’t… I don’t feel like the man you married. I don’t feel like Laura and Gabby’s dad.”

Your heart ached at his words, but you held his gaze, your own resolve strengthening. “You are the man I married,” you said softly but firmly. “You’re the same Logan who’s been by my side for twenty years, who’s been an amazing father to Laura and Gabby, who’s built this life with me. I know it doesn’t feel that way right now, but it will. You’ll remember not just with your head, but with your heart, too. I promise.”

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling shakily before nodding. “I hope you’re right, darlin’,” he murmured. “Because I don’t wanna screw this up.”

“You won’t,” you assured him. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Another explosion sounded in the distance, and Logan’s head whipped around, his instincts kicking in. “We gotta move,” he said gruffly, helping you to your feet. “You okay to walk?”

“I’m fine,” you said, though your legs wobbled slightly as the adrenaline began to wear off. Logan steadied you with a hand on your waist, his touch firm but careful.

“Let’s find the others,” he said, his voice steadying as he slipped back into mission mode. But before you could take a step, he stopped, turning back to you. His hand cupped your cheek again, his eyes soft but serious. “I love you,” he said, the words rough but filled with conviction. “I just… I needed to say it.”

Your breath caught, but you smiled, leaning into his touch. “I love you, too,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “Always.”

He nodded once, then released you, his claws sliding out with a familiar snikt. “Stay close,” he said, his tone low and protective as he led the way down the corridor. And though the chaos of the mission loomed ahead, you felt a flicker of hope—because no matter what, you were facing it together.

---

Once back at the mansion, the first things you saw were Laura and Gabby standing by Rogue, waiting for the others to clear the jet before you and Logan stepped off.

Gabby was the first to make a move, walking at a brisk pace until Logan finished climbing down the stairs and kneeled down, “c’mere princess.”

She let out a happy squeal and ran the rest of the way, launching herself into Logan’s arms. “You haven’t called me that in ages!”

Laura walked over to the three of you, giving you a short hug from the side, “weeks, Gabby, weeks.”

Gabby removed herself from Logan’s chest, turning to face her sister, “that’s ages Laura!”

Laura crossed her arms, her eyebrow arched in exaggerated disbelief. “It’s weeks, Gabby. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Logan chuckled, low and gravelly, still kneeling on the hangar floor. His hands rested lightly on Gabby’s shoulders as she spun back around to look at him, her big, expressive eyes narrowing in mock irritation.

“Well, she’s right about one thing,” Logan said, ruffling Gabby’s hair. “I haven’t been callin’ you ‘princess’ like I should.”

Gabby beamed, throwing her arms around his neck again. “It’s okay, Daddy. I forgive you!”

Behind them, you stood near the ramp, watching the scene with a mix of relief and warmth. Logan caught your eye over Gabby’s shoulder, his gaze softening as it locked on yours. For a moment, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.

Laura’s voice broke the spell. “You’re forgiven this time,” she said with a teasing smirk as she stepped closer. “But Gabby’s gonna milk it for at least a week. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Logan straightened, a hand resting on Gabby’s back as he looked at Laura with that gruff, fatherly affection he’d perfected. “Yeah, well, I reckon I can handle that.”

Gabby grinned triumphantly, glancing between her sister and her dad. “See? Told you I’m his favorite.”

Logan groaned, shaking his head as he rose to his feet, lifting Gabby effortlessly in his arms. “Don’t start that, kiddo. I got room for both of you troublemakers.”

Gabby giggled, but Laura rolled her eyes. “Nice save, Dad.”

You chuckled softly, stepping forward now that the moment felt a little less overwhelming. “Alright, you two,” you said, your voice warm but firm. “Let’s get inside. Everyone’s probably waiting, and your dad looks like he could use a break.”

Logan gave you a small, appreciative smile, one that lingered longer than usual, like he was drinking in every detail of you standing there. He shifted Gabby to his hip and reached out with his free hand, his calloused fingers brushing yours briefly as you both turned toward the mansion.

The walk back was filled with Gabby’s chatter, Laura’s sarcastic commentary, and Logan’s occasional grunt of amusement. But as the four of you crossed the threshold into the warmth of the mansion, you could feel the shift in Logan—a quiet resolve mixed with the raw emotion still simmering beneath the surface.

Once the girls were out of earshot, you tugged gently on Logan’s sleeve, pulling him aside into the quieter hallway. His brows furrowed slightly, but he let you guide him, his hand instinctively finding its way to your waist.

“Logan,” you started softly, looking up at him as the distant echoes of the mansion’s activity faded. “Are you okay?”

Logan’s jaw tensed, his eyes searching yours as though weighing his answer. The soft glow of the mansion’s lights illuminated his face, highlighting the exhaustion and turmoil etched into his features. He let out a low sigh, the sound heavy with emotion, before his hand slid from your waist to cradle the side of your face.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough but honest. “It’s like... I’ve been livin’ someone else’s life for weeks. Like it was mine but not mine, ya know? And now…” He paused, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek, his brow furrowing. “Now it’s all there. Every moment. Every damn thing. I remember our girls, our wedding, us. And it’s... it’s real. But it feels like it shouldn’t be. Like it’s a dream I’m gonna wake up from any second.”

Your heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in his voice. You reached up, covering his hand with yours, grounding him. “It’s not a dream, Logan. This is real. We’re real. Laura and Gabby are real. You’re their dad, my husband, and the man who’s been by my side through everythin’. You’ve got us, and we’ve got you.”

His eyes softened, but there was still a shadow of doubt lingering in them. “Feels like I’ve been walkin’ around with a piece missin’, and now it’s slammed back into place all at once. It’s almost too much.”

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your ear, fast and unsteady, but his arms came around you like they always had, holding you tightly. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” you murmured. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Together.”

Logan buried his face in your hair, his breath hitching as he clung to you. “I missed this,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Even when I didn’t know what I was missin’, I missed this.”

You smiled against his chest, your tears dampening the fabric of his shirt. “You’re home now,” you whispered. “That’s what matters.”

He nodded against you, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re somethin’ else, ya know that?” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost self-conscious smile. “Don’t deserve you.”

“You’re wrong,” you said firmly, your hand coming up to rest against his cheek. “We deserve each other. And we deserve this life we’ve built. It hasn’t been perfect, Logan, but it’s ours. And it’s worth every fight.”

Logan’s hand slid to the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles there. His gaze held yours for a long moment before he dipped his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Thanks, darlin’,” he murmured. “For not givin’ up on me.”

“Never,” you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips. “Now, let’s get back to the girls. They’ll probably think we’re plotting something if we’re gone too long.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, the sound easing some of the tension in his expression. “Yeah, don’t need Gabby comin’ up with some wild theory about why we’re takin’ our time.”

You chuckled, threading your fingers through his as you began walking back toward the living area. “She’d have us starring in some kind of superhero soap opera.”

“Kid’s got a hell of an imagination,” Logan muttered, though there was unmistakable fondness in his tone.

As the two of you reached the living room, Laura and Gabby looked up from the couch where they were sprawled out with popcorn and a movie on the screen. Gabby’s face lit up when she saw you, and she patted the spot next to her enthusiastically. “C’mon, Daddy! We saved you a seat!”

Logan glanced at you, his lips quirking in a small, grateful smile. “Think I better take her up on that,” he murmured.

“You better,” you teased, giving him a nudge. “I’ll grab some drinks and join you.”

He squeezed your hand once before letting go, striding over to settle between his daughters. Gabby immediately curled up against him, and Laura leaned over to steal a piece of his popcorn, earning a mock growl from him.

As you watched the three of them together, laughter bubbling up from the couch, you felt a deep sense of peace settle over you. Logan might still be navigating the storm in his mind, but he was here. And with time, you knew he’d come to fully embrace the life he’d found again.

and it's a happy ever after!!

this was meant to be much shorter. actually, i originally wasn't going to include logan getting his memories back and just make that into a bonus chapter but i couldn't stand it. if it's gonna be a happy ever after i had to go all the way.

and i have i have an idea of how they found laura that does not involve the logan movie. cause, no, no, no, they are getting their happy ending.

with that in mind, again, if anyone is interested in reading about how reader and logan got married, found laura, had gabby, let me know! or, if you have any ideas of stories you want me to tell with reader and logan don't be afraid to ask! (i might have already started writing for the alternate timeline...)

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time #logan ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ #abby's works ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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queen-of-fanfics · 1 year ago

Text

I Told You To Stay pt.2 (NSFW)

Pairing: Peter Pan x Reader

Prompt: After chasing you down, Peter catches you in the forest and things get ... spicy

A/N: Hi!! So, I know it's been a year since the first part, but I felt inspired, and I love that you guys enjoyed it! THERE IS A SPICY SCENE AT THE END OF THIS PART! I indicated it in case anyone doesn't want to read some nasty; you can skip it. :) I don't ever do NSFW scenes, but I felt like this needed it.

I Told You To Stay Pt. 1

What a compromising situation you found yourself in. Arms pinned above your head, held against a tree staring up into some very angry, yet worrying, eyes, you can’t help but want to laugh at your position. Figures, this is what you get for slipping out the window and running into the woods like hell hounds were nipping at your heels. But in all fairness, your actions were warranted.

How else were you supposed to react when Peter brought you back to his secret cabin after spending a romantic night together and then suddenly, Wendy is at said so-called “secret cabin” calling him ‘baby’ and trying to rub up on him? Regardless of Peter’s denials, it’s hard to believe that truth when she was standing right in front of you.

“I thought I told you to stay,” Peter says in a threateningly calm voice.

“Let me go, Peter.” You tried to keep your voice calm, trying to seem nonchalant. You kept your face passive, but there was a war of emotions inside of you.

You felt hurt. Angry. Embarrassed. Betrayed. And as much as you were trying to suppress it, you felt …. yearning. Even through all this, your heart was still looking for him in the darkness. It skipped and leaped in happiness that he was here. That he came racing after you. That he came looking for you when Wendy was probably waiting for him back at the cabin. The thought of her cause a bite of anger to shoot through you.

“Go back to Wendy, Peter.” You clipped.

“I told you to stay.” His voice was deadly. Deadly to your nerves and deadly to your heart.

Squeezing your eyes shut and blowing out a breath of frustration, trying desperately to get a hold of your temper that you could feel rising. “Go back to your cabin, Peter. Let me go.”

“I told you to stay. All you had to do was stay.” He snarled right back as if you hadn’t said a word and he had the audacity to sound upset with you!

Your eyes shot open and in a burst of adrenaline, you yanked your hands free and shoved against his chest, blurting “Let me go! You lied! I trusted you! I trusted you when everyone else laughed at me and you lied to me!” Shock flashed in his face quickly before he was able to hide it. You have never lost your temper or shown an ounce of venom since you’ve arrived to Neverland.

You pushed at his chest and tried to shove up off the tree to make your escape, but he wasn’t budging. Instead of stepping back to give you the space you desperately wanted, he stepped into you. Your hands pressed against his chest and your back pressed into the tree. Your bodies were flesh against each other now.

“I have never lied to you, Y/N.”

Scoffing in disbelief, your rising temper spoke for you, “You said that you and Wendy weren’t together.”

“Again. I have never lied to you.” He growled.

“Oh really?” Your voice was dripping with sarcasm. “It didn’t look that way to me. My mistake. It definitely didn’t look like she was cozy in your place and on your body. Peter, I don’t know what game you’re playing but I don’t want any part of it. It looks like Wendy is already in the picture so I don’t want any part of this!”

“Y/N, would you please just listen to me. I’ll explain everything.”

“I’ve been asking you to explain! I’ve been asking for months and you’ve avoided giving me even an ounce of clarity and now is when you want to explain?! Now that I’ve seen things clearly with my own eyes? I’m supposed to have faith in my feelings towards you but I have to ignore the proof right in front of me? The pair of you are playing mother and father all over this island and I’m supposed to ignore that?!”

“It is not like that.” He snapped, his own frustration growing.

He went to grab your hands again but you batted them away. Pushing and shoving at his chest, you were desperate to get away. Feeling frantic, the anger you’ve been trying to smother was starting to bubble and rise to the surface. But now your feelings were out of control. Laying too close to the surface was your frustration, hurt, confusions and yearning. Somehow in all of this, your heart was still looking for him in the darkness. Feeling pinned and trapped, the frustration was bringing tears to your eyes.

“Just listen, Y/N-”

“Get off me!”

Fed up with your pats and pushes, Peter finally shoved your hands aside and firmly cupped your face. Bringing his forehead down to rest against yours, his fingers cradling the back of your head creating a warm cocoon of just you and him.

“My dear sweet, Y/N. Listen to me. I know asking you to put your trust in me is not a fair ask but I’m going to do it anyway. I have my reasons for keeping Wendy on this island, but I promise you, it’s not romantic. I have … suspicions about her that I need to resolve before I can decide what to do with her. But please just trust in me.” The sweetness of his soft voice and his request soaked into your heart the way watercolor soaks into fine paper. His softness and intimacy drained the fight from you, leaving you with only hurt.

Not wanting to fall for his tricks and continue this loop, you whisper, “Please don’t do this, Peter. These mind games, I-I-I can’t! I’m too tired and too weak to survive you. Please-”

But before you could tell him off, he interrupts, “I know it’ll sound like an easy excuse or some made up lie but I’m telling the truth. I’m going to need your trust because it’ll sound like I’m paranoid, but I promise, this isn’t some easy way out excuse…. just something isn’t right with her. And things haven’t been right since she’s gotten here. I can feel a change in Neverland, but I can’t figure out what she’s done. I’ve caught her rifling through my things and trying to follow me. I’ve been letting her and acting as though I haven’t noticed, but only so that I can figure out what she is trying to do. But that’s how she found my cabin before. I didn’t take her there and I didn’t tell her about it, but she knows about it because she followed me one night. I’m telling you the truth. Just let me figure out what is going on and I’ll get rid of her.” His voice was earnest, like he was being honest but there was a whisper of doubt in the back of your mind.

Maybe he was being truthful? But I haven’t noticed any changes in the island. But I guess I arrived around the same time Wendy did and didn’t know what it was like before. But he could also be lying just to keep me placated.

Sensing your doubts, Peter tilts your head up and plants his lips on yours. One of his hands slide to the back of your nape to hold you steady for his onslaught of your mouth. His mouth was soft and warm. Sweet and demanding. Fervent but nervous. A man yet still a boy.

Tears finally slip down your face as you went the unwanted relief that washed over you. How could you want this man so much, a man you weren’t even sure if you could trust, but needed desperately. A man that made you weak with want but afraid of the fall. Against your lips, he whispers, “Please, Y/N, please,” but his kisses never stop and your heart tugs with every quiver you could feel from his lips. What was he asking for? What else could he want from you? But whatever it was … you knew you would give it to him.

“Trust in me. I’m begging you, just trust in me. Let me show you. Come back to the cabin, I sent her away, you’ll see, she’s not there anymore.”

“It’s not just the cabin, Peter. It’s everything. She’s everywhere. I see you guys-”

“But have you ever seen me affectionate with her? Never. It’s never been like that. She might be donned the title of Lost Mother or whatever, but that doesn’t have any association to me. It’s all for the boys.”

“Peter-” He cut in before you could argue.

“Please. Just trust in me. Just enough so that I can prove it to you. Then decide for yourself, but for right now, just trust in me enough. Come back with me tonight. Don’t leave me.” And that was it. That was when your resolve broke and there was nothing you could do but pay heed to his request. With your heart in your throat, throwing caution to the wind, you return his kiss tenfold; letting your actions answer for you.

~~~ it’s nasty time, ladies and gentlemen ~~~~

Your hands cup his jaw and you push up on your toes, slanting your head to deepen the kiss. You open your mouth in invitation and he accepts instantly. His tongues rushes in to meet and dance with yours; a happy reunion. His groan of relief vibrates through your body and your core tightens in excitement. Squeezing your thighs together to find any sort of relief and you run your hands down his chest to grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

Suddenly, Peter reaches down and hooks his arms behind your thighs before hoisting you up, your back against the tree and your legs wrapped around his hip, only his body keeping you suspended. The dress that you were wearing rides up high on your thigh and the cold air swirls against your burning skin cause goose bumps were pebble in their wake. Peter uses his hips to keep you pin against the tree but that meant that your could feel his hard member resting against your sex.

Peter shoves his face into the crook of your neck and suckles and nibbles all along any exposed skin. His hands were gripping and kneading your ass as he was supporting your weight. Almost like he couldn’t help himself, Peter rocks his hips into yours pulling a gasp from you and a groan from him at the sudden delicious friction. “What have you done to me, Y/N? I can feel your grip on your mind and I can do nothing to stop you. You’ve bewitched me. All I could ever need is you, like this.” His whispered breath skates across your skin, burning your ears and curling your toes.

Giving him easier access to your skin, your eyes close and your head rolls to the side. Unbeknwnsts to you, this movement causes the strap of your dress to slip off your shoulders, the top of your dress falling slightly, giving Peter a perfect view of the tops of your breast. You felt one of his hands tease up your legs and in between your flushed bodies. He pulls your panties to the side and your feel his fingers delve into your folds. You let out a small whimper as he hits his mark, using your wetness, he swirls his expert fingers around your clit with ease. “Peter, please.” His name fell from your lips like a prayer, causing his to chuckle and you yelp in surprise as he plants a firm bite on your neck, causing threads of pleasure down your spine. Your breast felt heavy and achy with need, every pant from you causing your nipples to rub against his chest. Your hips are now rolling on their own accord, moving in time with his torturing fingers.

“You keep begging sweetly like that and I won’t be able to stop myself from taking you right here. I’m barely holding onto my reserve right now, Y/N. I want nothing more than to throw you down and have my fill of you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell me to stop right now.”

Sighing dreamily, you tease, “Weren’t you the one who started this, hmm?” His movements slowed to a stop, and he simply held you for a long moment. Your heart felt like it was floating and soaring through the cloud, butterflies in your stomach as his breath fanned against your breast. “Yeah well … I’ve never been the reasonable one, have I?” You felt his smirk against your neck before it disappeared in his seriousness, “If you want me to stop, Y/N, you have to let me know now.”

“You’ll stop if I ask?” Your whisper was barely heard as it floated through the silent night.

He was silent for a moment before he responded, “I would. It would kill me but I would. I would do anything you asked of me, Y/N. I would steal the moon for you if you asked it of me. Please … just stay with me.”

Wrapping your arms around his head and shoulders, you envelop the precious bundle that was clingy to you like you were his life source. How could you deny him? Tilting your head towards him so that you lips ghosted over his ear, you whisper, “I need you, Peter. Are you going to make me beg?”

You let out a started gasp as he shot to life. Your hands falling away from him and bracing behind you against the tree as one of his hands shot down to undo his pants while the other ripped the top of your dress down the middle, leaving the two sides falling open and revealing your body to him. Your dress hung loosely, like a belt wrapped around your waist now, your breasts exposed to the cool air causing your nipples to pebble. Suddenly his naked cock was dragging between your wet lips as he rocked against you, coating it with your arousal. Peter pushed to have his body flush against yours again and his face back in your neck, one hand went back to your ass while the other grabbed and squeezed at your breast.

“Y/N. I need you. Hard and fast. I can’t think straight and having you like this is pushing me towards the brink of insanity. I can’t control myself right now.”

“Don’t hold back, Peter. I need you, just as you are.”

A pleasured cry and a “oh my god” was ripped from you when Peter lifted you and slid you the whole way down, taking his whole cock inside you until you were sitting flush against his thigh. “Oh, fuck, Y/N. My dreams are nothing compared to this.”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he used you to milk his cock; using you to ride him. His arm flexing to lift you and his hips slamming up to meet you. His pace was brutal. His strength had you slamming down with a force that made your muscles squeeze and pulse with every thrust. Your cries were loud and obscene but his growls and grunt were feral; only causing you to react more frantically. Your hips your rolling to meet his thrusts and the strong kneading on your achy breasts and bites along your neck was almost too much to bare. In and out. In and out. Every slide and every slam sending pleasure to the tops of your head to the tips of your toes.

Then suddenly, his hand was there again, right on your clit with enough pressure that cause nearly painful pleasure. He continued to buck into you like a wild animal, your muscles clenched like a vice in satisfaction. He swirled and flicked with such precision as though he knew exactly what you felt and knew what you needed. Your head was swimming with arosual, your toes curling and your back arching against the rough texture on your back, cause little delicious scratches to scrape there. “Peter, I’m right there. Cum with me. I need you.”

He slammed his lips into yours, drinking in all your cries, and his efforts doubled, then all at once, he stilled and groaned into your mouth, and he shook and emptied into you. Sweaty and panting, you both held each other, desperate to catch your breaths. After a few calm and blissful minutes, Peter softly kisses your jaw and whispers, “Come back with me, Y/N. Stay with me.”

With your eyes closed, your head rolled back, and your smile pointing up towards the dark sky, you whisper, “Ok, Peter. Take me home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I Told You To Stay Pt. 1

tags: @fandom-fae @mmikeypopcornperil @layla2-49 @sjisfindingneverland @rainbow-alilou @hirohard0 @kaypan9909 @riordanness @vampbloodbunny2 @mk-the-great @fightformidnightx @lanelovesdilfs @queeniemariel @ariaroseloklover @quackitysdrugdealer @wildcatglove13 @james-800 @impossiblesaladwerewolf @bellarose-24

#fanfiction #fanfic #imagine #writing #ouat #peter pan fanfic #peter pan x reader #peter pan imagines #peter pan #ouat imagine #ouat fanfiction #ouat fanfic #peter pan imagine #peter pan fanfiction #peter x reader #ouat peter pan #ouat x reader #peter pan ouat

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thewalrusespublicist · 3 months ago

Text

Paul and Linda Interview from Hellllllll

@slenderfire-blog as the patron saint of good sources sent me this interview and I thought I would write it up as it gives a worrying insight into the famed idyllic marriage and Paul’s mental state at the time.

Reader, it was not idyllic and he was not doing well.

Disclaimer: For context, this interview is in his Broadstreet era aka the grief/midlife crisis/I cant have a meltdown if I’m making a film period. I fully believe that Paul was having an extended emotional crisis/breakdown post John's death/successive unresolved and badly handled traumas. (As I was saying to @slenderfire-blog, let's just say if he feels like crying every damn day about John in 2021, imagine how it was in 1985.) So yeah Paul is having a time and I look forward to McCartney Vol 3. for potential confirmation and illumination on this.

At the same time JESUS FUCK PAUL THIS IS TERRIBLE.

Like so bad, bad to the point I now feel like contemporaneous Peter Cox account is 1000% more credible as this is essentially the PR version of what he said. So let's get into the greatest hits:

The happy, definitely-not-in-trouble couple

They do seem to adore each others company, be locked in with each other and Paul does rely on her a lot for support and approval:

As they talk, Paul constantly squeezes Linda’s arm reassuringly, strokes her hand or looks to her for approval or agreement whenever he makes a point. The two are inclined to talk at once or to finish each other’s sentences. At times, the link is so tight, they seem almost like different aspects of one person.

Though at the same time they both describe the relationship as 'rather volatile' and full of arguments where they go and sulk in different rooms. They lightly play it off but then Linda says a bit too seriously that shes usually the one who gives in first :/.

Paul built the house they live in and are sort of obsessed with cosplaying living the 'peasant' lifestyle with no help save one housekeeper Rose who is from Paul's bachelor days and the occasional babysitter (as far as I'm aware this is true).

The marrying thing in 68 was so intense he even asked lil HEATHER to marry him what the hellllll (of course he wasn't serious but it does feel like another way of indirectly pressuring Linda to commit). He also kept asking Linda until she gave in.

Random swipe in the baby name department at Zowie Bowie, lmao not friends with the Bowies then (good thing Duncan Jones happens to agree).

They romanticise the bickering and volatility as being like passionate young lovers

“My parents were married for 25 years and they were like young lovers,” says Linda. “Paul’s parents were the same. If you’re lucky, you get that in life. You see, those are the kinds of things that matter to me—not the diamond necklace.”

Paul:

Paul is clearly not okay and seems to be regressing by trying to recapture his childhood through his current situation. Throughout the interview Paul keeps going back to his parents marriage and his childhood as the ideal frame of reference. This is pretty standard but Paul takes it to the extreme of this meaning no friends, family only and the wife do all of the labour.

This (save the misogyny) is a far cry from his 60s revolutionary kick but I can see how this happened in the wake of the Beatles split, the trauma and complex grief from John's death and the press. In response and defense to the criticism and hurt, Paul seems to have retreated wholly within himself and his family sphere and is coercing Linda into fulfilling the role of the wife within that. Take for example, his portrayal of the housework and why Linda should like to do it:

“Linda really doesn’t like housework,” Paul explains, “because when she grew up, her family had maids and she wasn’t taught to do anything. But it’s something I’ve tried to tell Linda about because in the kind of family I’m from, housework is considered a pleasure—the smell of ironing and the laundry. Where I’m from, once a week, the women would sort of get the laundry out and smell the washing and feel it and see it and iron it all, and they’d be chatting or listening to the radio. It was like a peasant thing. It was an event, like treading on the grapes.

It's bonkers and infuriating and at first I was like I DONT KNOW PAUL IF YOU WANT THE PLEASURE OF SMELLING DETERGENT SO BAD YOU CAN DO THE BLOODY LAUNDRY. But then you realise how Paul connects it with comfort, especially with comfort after a bereavement:

“Growing up in Liverpool, that was always there for me. Even after my mum died, my aunties came around religiously every week and cooked and cleaned the house and did the laundry and provided that kind of atmosphere for us.”

It's romanticising the poverty he grew up in but also signifies to me how much it's a coping mechanism. He wants Linda to do the laundry and have that idealised maternal domestic atmosphere as in his head if you have that then you can carry on even in the face of cataclysmic loss.

Denny Lane's comments about Linda being like a mother to Paul feel really pertinent here. Reading all this has kind of reinforced to me this idea I've had for a while that Linda's maternal attributes was one of the foundational pillars of Paul's attraction to her and an essential part of their marriage. In another interview I'll post another time, he says they never went on holiday without the kids, with them taking tiny Heather on their honeymoon. It wasn't just tours, the kids really did go everywhere with them when they could and they made sure the children's bedrooms were just next door to theirs so they could be there all the time. It's great, wonderful parenting but also with the genesis of their relationship it's really hard not to see Linda and the promised family as the replacement to fill the hole from the Beatles. Not saying that he didn't go on to adore them and them be the pinnacle joy of his life but yh ... once you see it it's hard not to unsee. (Also the thing I've always been too scared to say/wild speculation again I don't know these people ... but I think they would have always had these problems until Paul actually reckoned with his mothers death/other traumas.)

Thinking about it all as well, it must be so hard to essentially cosplay the culture and background you grew up in with wealth and class separating you from everything you used to intimately know

Aggressive optimist Paul telling a very different story here (is he more honest here, more depressed, or maybe somewhere in the middle?)

“I’ve got all these contingency plans. I tend to look at the worst side of things. I’ll say, ‘If they turn us down, we’re going to do this.’ If anything hurts me, I want to fight it—so it doesn’t hurt me again.”

Nothing to add just ... ouch.

Reinforcement of John refusing to let Paul hold Sean because Paul 'didn't know him' ... which yh that is some bullshit its a baby. Paul goes onto mention how John wasn't great with babies as he had no experience whilst he had and somehow makes it borderline a competition lmao.

HALFWAY THROUGH I REALISED THIS WAS THE INFAMOUS PLAYGIRL 'JOHN SAID JEALOUS GUY WAS ABOUT ME' INTERVIEW. I NEVER REALISED LINDA WAS THERE.

Not him essentially saying 'in hindsight maybe Linda needed a lot of lessons' for Wings and admitting he just wanted her there. They both seem to accept it as something that wasn't fair to expect of Linda with no training.

He does this embarrassed little giggle like 'oh I may be a chauvinist YES YES YOU ARE SORT YOURSELF OUT.

Linda ohh my GOD Linda girl

She has rings around her eyes from exhaustion

Gets up at 7am to do the breakfast every morning despite going to bed late

Said she didn’t want to get married again initially as she had been controlled by men all her life until then

Says her kids are her best friends and that she never had a friend until she moved to Arizona later on (this is interesting to me that both Paul and Linda both saw themselves as 'loners' in childhood even though interviews from people in Paul's childhood repeat that he was popular. Maybe this was a narrative in their marriage or maybe Paul always felt internally lonely).

Qualifier here: I also don't think the best friend thing is true, there are a few people that pop up over the years who say they were very close to Linda and one did a lovely interview with Paul post Linda's death. I think the whole 'family is all you need schtick was part cope and part PR.

From apparent tradition Paul says that he doesen't tell her how much he's worth and their money situation as 'his dad didn't tell his mum' (even though his mum was integral to financially supporting the family may I remind you Paul). Linda girl listen I can make you happy I can give you a good life and treat you to nice things come with me Linda-

Theres one point where Linda PANICS because Paul mentions the supposed socialist uprising potentially taking all their money because HE WON'T TELL HER WHAT THE FINANCIALS LOOK LIKE. THIS FUCKER (also socialists Paul you're a northern liberal get a grip you class traitor)

They both romanticise living frugally with Linda not buying any nice fancy things ... its hard not to remember Peter Cox's account of Linda asking to borrow money when reading this :(((((

Linda's idea of a luxury holiday is not having to cook and clean and she can have fun :( Paul then interjects with 'yh that's great for a bit but not all the time as isn't it nice to have the family all in the kitchen!!' I'm sure Linda would agree if you actually helped Paul.

In summation: he needs help and a slap, she deserves a statue but would probably prefer a sit-down. Thank god there’s a lot to suggest that Paul has improved massively when it comes to his view on women and labour (wouldn’t have married a working businesswoman if they hadn’t) but this is still a difficult window into how things were in the 80s and the life that campaigners like Yoko were fighting against.

#Paul and Linda #Couples counselling would have helped them so much #Linda girl you deserved so much better here #John and Yoko I’m on my knees trying to rescue them from each other #This situation I’m just here for Linda girl I can get you out of here #The 80s were Paul’s equivalent of John late 70s #interview #Linda #To be clear I don’t think these two were the same level of intrinsically incompatible and dysfunctional #They just needed help and he needed counselling

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amethystarachnid · 6 months ago

Note

So I saw a post on Pinterest and I thought it would be a good idea for a fanfic?im just gonna type it out and explain it after

Peter: im back from my trip i got you another magnet mr.white wolf

Bucky:cool stick it on

Tony: is that peters shopping list on your arm?

Bucky: yea

Tony: what the

Tony: Peter you need to stop using buckys arm as a fridge

Peter: Mr. White wolf said it helps him associate the arm with something other than murder

Tony: crying

So basically I was wondering if you could do this well not this interaction but like reader and Bucky are friends and reader is Peter? If that makes any sense?

STICKERS

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x teen!gn!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: platonic, fluff

ᯓ★ Word count: 2.5k (I'm so sorry if it's too short, hope you like it anyway)

ᯓ★ Summary: Bucky always lets you stick stickers to his vibranium arm but had never told you why...until now.

ᯓ★ I hope I understood the request well, and I tried to make the reader gender neutral since it wasn't specified in the ask, hope you like it <3

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The hum of the compound is familiar by now. Machines whir softly in the background, the faint scent of coffee lingers in the air, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear Sam and Tony bickering over something that probably doesn’t matter. This is home—at least, as close as it gets. It wasn’t always, but things changed. The world changed, and you had to change with it.

Being here is better than being out there. You know that much. The compound is safer. It’s structured. Sure, it’s a little weird living with a bunch of Avengers, but it beats the alternative. When SHIELD fell apart, a lot of things got messy, including your life. No family, no place to go, just a kid caught in the middle of something bigger than them. Steve found you first, said they’d figure something out, and now, somehow, you’ve ended up here. Officially, you’re under the Avengers’ protection. Unofficially, you’re the compound’s resident stray.

“Alright, what is it this time?”

Bucky’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you glance up from where you’ve been hunched over the kitchen counter, fidgeting with a fresh roll of stickers. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at you with an exasperated sort of fondness.

You grin. “You make it sound like I’ve done something bad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘bad,’” you say, tearing off a small sticker shaped like a cat. Without hesitation, you reach out and press it to the cool vibranium of his forearm. It sticks perfectly, just like you knew it would.

Bucky sighs like a man who has known deep suffering. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“Because you let me,” you answer simply, peeling off another sticker—this one shaped like a tiny watermelon slice—and placing it beside the first.

It’s true. You started doing this months ago, fully expecting him to shut it down after the first few times. He never did. The first time, it had been a dumb impulse, something to break the tension. You’d been talking, and without really thinking about it, you’d stuck a star-shaped sticker onto his arm. He’d given you a long, unreadable look but hadn’t peeled it off. That was all the encouragement you needed.

Now, it’s a habit. Every time you see him, you add a new one. Sometimes, he’ll pretend not to notice. Other times, he’ll act put-upon, like he’s carrying some great burden. You know better, though. If he really hated it, he wouldn’t still be standing here, letting you decorate his arm like it’s an elementary school art project.

“I let you do a lot of things,” he mutters, watching as you place a little frog next to the watermelon.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite,” you say, grinning.

“Steve’s gonna be hurt,” he points out.

“Steve’s got enough fans,” you reply, reaching for another sticker. This one’s a smiley face with sunglasses. You stick it on his wrist.

Bucky glances down at his arm, then back at you. His expression softens—just a little. “Y’know, people used to be scared of me.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, adding a rainbow to his forearm, “they clearly weren’t looking hard enough. You’re a giant teddy bear.”

He scoffs, but there’s no real heat behind it. “A ‘teddy bear’ with a metal arm and a kill count.”

“Even teddy bears have claws,” you say, shrugging. “Besides, you let a teenager put stickers on you. That automatically lowers your intimidation factor.”

Bucky huffs but doesn’t argue. You know he won’t take them off. He never does, at least not right away. Sometimes, hours later, you’ll spot him across the compound, still wearing them.

That’s enough for you.

It doesn’t take long for the others to notice.

The first one to point it out is Sam.

You’re both sitting in the common room, Bucky on the couch, you curled up on the opposite end, sorting through a new pack of stickers you got from a store Tony let you raid on a supply run. They’re good ones, too—holographic, shimmery, some even glow in the dark. You’re in the process of carefully placing a tiny raccoon on Bucky’s wrist when Sam strolls in, eyes scanning the room before landing on the two of you.

His brows pull together. “Uh, what the hell is that?”

Bucky, who has clearly mastered the art of selective ignorance, doesn’t look up from his book. You, however, grin and wave. “What’s what?”

“That,” Sam says, pointing at Bucky’s arm like it personally offended him.

Bucky finally sighs, lowering his book just enough to glare over the top of it. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, man.”

Sam narrows his eyes and gestures again. “That. The stickers. What am I looking at?”

You lean back, admiring your work. By now, Bucky’s metal arm is covered in a vibrant mess of stickers—cartoon animals, little hearts, a glittery UFO, and even a miniature Avengers logo you’d snuck in just for fun.

You beam. “Art.”

Sam blinks. He looks at Bucky, then back at you, then back at Bucky. “And you’re just…letting them do this?”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah.”

Silence. Sam stares, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. Eventually, he just lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Man, you really are getting soft.”

Bucky flips him off without looking up.

You take that as permission to add another sticker—a rainbow-colored star, right on his shoulder.

Sam shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before grabbing his drink from the fridge and heading out, still looking vaguely disturbed by what he just witnessed.

Of course, Sam being Sam, the moment he’s out of the room, you know he’s going to tell the others.

The next one to comment on it is Natasha.

You’re sitting at the kitchen counter, helping yourself to a bowl of cereal, when she walks in. She nods at you in greeting before grabbing a protein bar from the cabinet. It’s a normal morning, nothing out of the ordinary—until she glances at Bucky and does a double-take.

She tilts her head slightly. “Did you get in a fight with a Lisa Frank notebook?”

You nearly choke on your cereal.

Bucky, who is now used to this reaction, doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Natasha takes a bite of her protein bar, studying him. “Then why does your arm look like a kindergarten art project?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, so you take it upon yourself. “Because I put them there.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “And he let you?”

“Obviously,” you say, popping another spoonful of cereal into your mouth.

She’s quiet for a moment, her sharp gaze flicking from you to Bucky. You half-expect her to make a snarky comment or tease him, but instead, she just hums and says, “Huh.”

And then she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a tiny cat magnet, and sticks it to his forearm before walking away like nothing happened.

Bucky stares after her, brow furrowed. He lifts his arm slightly, looking at the magnet now clinging to the vibranium.

You snort. “You’re officially a walking fridge.”

He groans.

It only gets worse from there.

A few days later, Steve notices.

You’re in the gym, watching Bucky and Steve spar while pretending to be invested in a book. In reality, you’re mostly waiting for them to finish so you can rope Bucky into watching a movie with you.

Steve circles Bucky, eyes narrowed in concentration. He throws a punch, which Bucky easily dodges. There’s a beat of silence before Steve suddenly drops his stance, frowning.

“…Are those stickers?”

Bucky sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

Steve squints, stepping back to get a better look. “They are.” His frown deepens. “And…are those magnets?”

You bite back a laugh.

Bucky glares at you like this is somehow your fault (which, to be fair, it is).

Steve crosses his arms. “You’ve been walking around like this?”

“Yes.”

“And you just…let them do it?”

“Yes.”

Steve blinks, clearly struggling to process this information. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to reconcile the image of his best friend, ex-Winter Soldier, walking around covered in colorful stickers and fridge magnets.

Eventually, he just sighs. “You’re impossible.”

Bucky smirks. “Took you this long to figure that out?”

Steve shakes his head, clearly exasperated, but doesn’t push the subject further.

You take that as a win.

Tony’s reaction is arguably the best.

You’re in the lab with Bucky, keeping him company while Tony messes around with something that looks vaguely explosive. He’s in the middle of rambling about some new upgrade for Bucky’s arm when he abruptly stops mid-sentence.

His eyes narrow. “Hold on.”

Bucky tenses. “What?”

Tony steps closer, squinting at his arm. He lifts a finger and flicks one of the magnets, watching as it wobbles slightly before settling back into place.

“…Are you kidding me?”

Bucky groans. “Not you too.”

Tony bursts out laughing. “Oh, this is rich. You—you’ve been walking around like this? Just letting them stick things to you?”

“Yes,” Bucky says flatly.

Tony looks at you, still grinning. “You did this?”

You nod proudly. “Yep.”

He lets out an impressed whistle. “Wow. I gotta say, Barnes, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Are you done?”

Tony pretends to consider. “Nope.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath and turns to leave, but before he can make his escape, Tony suddenly grabs a Stark Industries magnet from his workbench and slaps it onto Bucky’s bicep with a satisfied smirk.

Bucky glares at him. “I hate you.”

Tony winks. “No, you don’t.”

You snicker as Bucky stomps out of the lab, now sporting a Stark-branded magnet.

Despite the teasing, Bucky never takes them off right away.

Sometimes, you’ll catch him absentmindedly running his fingers over a sticker while he’s reading or training. Other times, you’ll see him glance down at his arm, something soft and unreadable in his expression before he quickly schools his face back into neutrality.

You don’t push. You don’t have to.

He lets you do this because he knows it makes you happy. Because he knows it makes you feel safe.

And, maybe—just maybe—because he doesn’t mind it as much as he pretends to.

The stickers—and now magnets—become a daily ritual.

At this point, everyone in the compound has noticed. Clint, predictably, laughs himself half to death when he first sees Bucky with a sparkly unicorn sticker on his wrist. Thor, on the other hand, is completely unbothered. He takes one look, nods approvingly, and later gifts you a set of Asgardian insignia stickers that you immediately slap onto Bucky’s arm. Even Bruce, who usually keeps to himself, quietly asks if he can contribute and hands you a little atom-shaped magnet one afternoon.

Bucky grumbles about it, of course. He sighs dramatically when you press another sticker onto his arm, acts like it’s the greatest inconvenience in the world, but he never actually stops you. He never pulls away. He never tells you no.

And he never takes them off until he’s alone.

You start paying attention, watching him when he thinks no one else is looking. He’ll be in the middle of a conversation, his fingers absentmindedly brushing over the stickers on his forearm, tracing the edges. You notice that he doesn’t cover his arm as much anymore—not as often as he used to. Before, he wore long sleeves even in the middle of summer, like he couldn’t stand the sight of it. Now, he just lets it be.

That realization sits in the back of your mind for a long time.

Then, one day, you ask.

It’s late.

Most of the compound has already turned in for the night. The common room is quiet, dimly lit by the glow of the television, where some old black-and-white movie plays with the volume low. You’re curled up on the couch next to Bucky, a fresh pack of stickers in your lap.

You press a new one onto his arm—a tiny golden retriever wearing sunglasses—before hesitating.

“Hey, Buck?”

He glances down at you. “Yeah?”

You fidget slightly, turning the next sticker over in your hands. “…Why do you let me do this?”

Bucky blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that question. “Huh?”

You gesture vaguely to his arm, now covered in an assortment of colorful stickers and small magnets. “This. Why do you let me put them on you? You could’ve told me to stop. But you didn’t.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. His expression shifts—just a little—but you catch it. A flicker of something uncertain, something careful, like he’s picking his words before speaking.

Then, finally, he exhales.

“…Because it helps.”

You tilt your head. “Helps with what?”

Bucky glances down at his arm, his fingers skimming over the stickers.

“You know what this arm used to be,” he says, his voice quieter than before. “What it used to do.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

He swallows, his jaw tight. “For a long time, it felt like it didn’t belong to me. Like it was just…a weapon. A part of me that wasn’t really mine.” His fingers brush over the little cartoon raccoon you stuck near his wrist. “But then you started doing this. And…I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” you say immediately.

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe not. But it’s…different, now. When I look at it.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “When I see the stickers, I don’t think about the things I’ve done. I think about you. About Sam rolling his eyes, Nat sneaking magnets onto me, Steve acting like he doesn’t get it even though he does.” His voice softens. “I think about now. Not then.”

You don’t know when your eyes started burning, but suddenly, it’s hard to see. You swallow thickly, trying to blink away the sting.

“Oh,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you meant it to.

Bucky glances at you, eyes sharp. “Hey. Don’t cry on me, kid.”

“I’m not,” you lie, furiously rubbing at your eyes. “It’s just—you just said something really nice, and my dumb emotions weren’t prepared for it.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the guy covered in stickers,” you sniff, but you’re smiling now, even if your throat is still tight.

Bucky shakes his head, rolling his eyes, but there’s something softer in his expression when he looks at you.

“…Thanks, kid.”

You look up at him. “For what?”

He gestures vaguely at his arm. “This. The stickers. Everything.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just grab another sticker and carefully press it onto the back of his hand.

Bucky glances down at it. It’s a tiny heart.

He smiles.

I'm so sorry if this it's too short I didnt know what else to add :(

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athenasdaydreams · 7 months ago

Text

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: Remus loves christmas for many reasons, but his favourite reason might be you.

chapter warnings: mention of food, other than that not any to my knowledge!!

A/N: merry christmas!! i guess i have to listen to the people of tumblr and write another one... yay

At the young age of 6 years old, Remus John Lupin knew one thing; he loved Christmas. While every day was a constant reminder of his... condition, Christmas was his chance to be normal. His mother would bake sugar cookies and brownies with him, while his father would use magic to string old christmas lights across their small house. His favourite part, however, was not the gifts, or the decorations. It was chocolate. Remus loved chocolate in any form it came in, and in winter, there was no shortage of it. Hot chocolate, peppermint bark, festive chocolate frogs his father would buy for him, Remus adored christmas for this reason.

When Remus went to Hogwarts, his love for christmas only increased. Surrounded by friends who entertained him with games of wizard's chess and card games, he had more to look forward to when the first snowfall of the year happened. Remus loved the way you loved christmas as well. Your sweet disposition only shone brighter during the holiday season. Whether you helped a first year put his ornament higher on the gryffindor common room's christmas tree, or shared your homemade treats with kids whose parents were far to busy to make any, you were just the most perfect person on earth, like an angel that descended from heaven.

On his fourth Christmas holiday spent at Hogwarts, Remus couldn’t help but watch you from the corner of the common room, pretending to be engrossed in the book resting on his lap. You were laughing as you helped a third-year untangle a string of enchanted fairy lights that kept trying to loop themselves into knots. The sound of your laugh—light and genuine—made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

“Oi, Moony!” Sirius’s voice jolted him out of his reverie. “Are you going to make that move, or are you just planning to stare at her until next Christmas?” Sirius smirked, leaning back in his chair, a knowing look plastered on his face.

James snickered beside him, flicking a wizard’s chess piece that had been knocked over in the chaos of their ongoing game. “Don’t be too hard on him, Padfoot. Christmas is the time for love and all that nonsense, isn’t it?”

Remus flushed, ducking his head to hide the redness creeping up his cheeks. “I wasn’t staring,” he muttered, though the heat in his face betrayed him.

“Oh, sure,” Peter chimed in, grinning as he picked up one of the chocolate frogs from a plate nearby. “Because it’s totally normal to sit with a chessboard in front of you for twenty minutes without moving a single piece.”

Before Remus could come up with a defense, you approached the group, holding a tray of what looked like freshly baked gingerbread cookies. “Anyone want some? I tried a new recipe, and I think they turned out pretty well,” you said, smiling as you offered the plate.

Remus’s heart skipped a beat as you leaned closer to him, holding out the tray. “Here, Remus. I know you like chocolate, so I added a little drizzle on these ones.”

He stared at the cookies for a moment, then at you, his brain struggling to form coherent words. “Thank you,” he managed, his voice quieter than he intended. He took one, the warmth of your smile making his insides feel like melted chocolate.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. “Smooth, Moony. Really smooth.”

You laughed softly at their antics, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, enjoy, everyone. Let me know what you think.” And with that, you turned to help another group of students decorating by the fireplace.

Remus watched you walk away, the cookie forgotten in his hand. James leaned over and whispered, “Mate, you’re going to have to say something eventually. Preferably before we graduate.”

But Remus didn’t need their teasing to know what was on his mind. You had a way of making every part of Christmas brighter, and he couldn’t help but think that you were the best gift he’d ever have the privilege of knowing.

By the next Christmas, the common room was alive with festive cheer once more, and this time, you and Remus sat together by the fire like old friends—though to Remus, you were so much more than that.

It had been a year since that quiet, awkward conversation, and in that time, you and Remus had grown closer in a way that felt effortless. He no longer hesitated to sit beside you in the common room or join you for study sessions in the library. You’d developed a quiet, easy camaraderie that made him feel like he belonged in a way he hadn’t since arriving at Hogwarts.

This Christmas, though, felt different.

“Are you winning, Moony?” you teased, leaning over to glance at his game of wizard’s chess with Sirius.

“Not even close,” he admitted with a wry smile. His knight was just smashed to bits by Sirius’s queen, and his remaining pieces seemed to be shaking with dread.

“Poor knight,” you said with mock sympathy. “He never stood a chance.”

Sirius grinned. “I’m ruthless. Everyone knows that.”

Remus rolled his eyes but chuckled, turning to you. “I think my pieces have officially given up. Care to save me by distracting Sirius?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh no, I’m terrible at chess. But I can offer you some chocolate for moral support.”

Reaching into the small tin you’d brought with you, you held out a neatly wrapped piece. Remus accepted it with a quiet “thanks,” and as he unwrapped it, he couldn’t help but marvel at how thoughtful you always were.

“Do you ever stop being nice?” he asked softly, almost to himself.

You tilted your head, smiling. “Why would I stop? It’s Christmas.”

“Still,” he muttered, looking down at the chocolate in his hand. “You make everything... better. Not just Christmas. Just—everything.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you reached for a piece of chocolate yourself to hide your flustered smile. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

The word friends made his heart ache in the best and worst way. He wanted to be more than that, but the thought of ruining what you already had was enough to keep him silent.

“You’ve been so good to me this year, Remus,” you said after a moment, surprising him. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Me? You’re the one who’s—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You leaned closer, curiosity sparkling in your eyes. “No, go on. What were you going to say?”

He hesitated, then sighed, giving you a small smile. “You’re the one who’s made this year so great. I mean, you’re... you’re incredible, really. You make everyone feel special. It’s hard not to feel lucky just being around you.”

Your heart fluttered, and you looked down at your lap, feeling suddenly shy. “Well, if I make everyone feel special, it’s only because I learned from you.”

Remus blinked, caught completely off guard. “From me?”

You nodded, meeting his gaze with a soft smile. “Of course. You’re one of the kindest people I know, Remus. And you always know how to make people feel cared for, even when you don’t realize it.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The room seemed to grow quieter, the glow of the fire casting a soft light over your faces.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Merry Christmas, Remus,” you said, your smile brighter than any decoration in the room.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, his heart so full it felt like it might burst.

He still didn’t know if he’d ever work up the courage to tell you how he really felt, but for now, being your friend—your favourite friend, he hoped—was more than enough.

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #remus x reader #christmas #merry christmas #marauders #remus

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ticifics · 8 months ago

Text

Ask me to stay

Peter Maximoff x fem!mutant!reader

Summary: Peter stays by your side, bringing comfort, teasing, and a love that feels like home

Warnings: fluffy, light teasing, emotional comfort, mild suggestive language, established relationship, hurt&comfort

A/N: This was my first request and I was so excited! I hope you like it (and damn, I'm head over heels in love with it)

It was hard to explain how someone like Peter had become the most important person in your life. He was a force of nature: fast, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. From the day you met, he had never seemed afraid of you.

No, in fact, he found your power fascinating. It was strange, honestly, especially after spending years surrounded by people who feared to hear your voice. Your parents always suspected, but it wasn’t until your ninth birthday, when you showed up with a brand-new BMW in front of the house – just a simple request and the salesman himself drove the car over – that they knew their little girl was not like the other kids.

“You have a voice that can make anyone do whatever you want? What kind of comic book villain are you?” he teased at your first meeting, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he leaned in closer, his dark eyes shining with curiosity.

“I’m not a villain, Peter,” you replied, crossing your arms in mock indignation.

“Oh, sure, Miss ‘do as I say.’ And I’m Captain America.” He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If it were me, I’d make people bring me food all the time. Or let me win at Pong.”

“You don’t even need help with that, cheater.”

He laughed, tilting his head to the side as if about to respond, but instead, just looked at you for a few seconds. “I think that’s what I like about you,” he said suddenly, the tone surprisingly serious. “You stand up to me. It’s cool.”

You tried to hide the heat rising to your cheeks, but something in that moment stayed with you. Peter never looked at you like someone dangerous or different. To him, you were just… you.

And he never changed.

The years passed, and Peter continued to be the same boy who was impossible to keep up with. He spoke too fast, thoughts racing faster than his words, and loved to tease you.

“Are you really going to pretend you didn’t hear me?” he said, leaning against the doorframe, holding a Twinkie like it was a prize. “I know you’re in there. I’m going to count to three… One… Two—”

“Peter, if you annoy me, I swear I’ll make you leave here singing Abba in the square.” You hoped your voice sounded like a real threat, even though a smile fought to spread across your face.

“Oh, the power of the magic voice.” He rolled his eyes, taking an exaggerated bite of the sweet, cream smearing across his lips. “I knew I should’ve brought earplugs. What an amateur I am.”

And you just laughed, shaking your head as he kept talking, always jumping from one thought to the next without pause.

Your friendship was like that: full of teasing, laughter, and an intimacy that felt natural. It was easy to be with Peter, easy to forget the complicated world outside when he was by your side.

On that particular night, in the basement of his mother’s house, you realized just how much he meant to you. You had spent hours together, surrounded by old pillows and wrapped in the soundtrack Peter insisted was “essential to understand the decade.”

“You have to admit, Bowie is a genius,” he said, pointing at the tape player like it was a work of art.

“I admit he’s good,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “But not as good as Queen.”

“What?” Peter placed a hand on his heart, pretending to be offended. “Take that back now, or I’ll be forced to challenge you to a Pong duel!”

“You always want Pong,” you muttered, but the challenge in his eyes made you laugh.

You spent what felt like hours playing and arguing about bands while sharing the almost endless supply of sweets he always hid. After a lot of laughter and sugar, you both fell asleep side by side in the middle of the mess.

You woke up first, senses still numb. It took a moment to realize where you were, who you were with. Peter’s arms were wrapped tightly around you, holding you close to his chest. His breath tickled the top of your head, and you could feel each rise and fall as he inhaled and exhaled. It was a feeling... good. Being held so tightly by him. You sighed, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. There was something there, a scent mixed with the warmth of his skin, that made your heart race.

Without realizing it, you gently pressed your nose to the soft flesh, letting his scent fill your lungs. The skin felt so soft, so smooth. What would it feel like to slide your lips across it? The thought triggered an alert in your mind. Friends didn’t think these things.

“Hmm… you’re smelling my neck now?” he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep sending shivers down your spine, making you feel even guiltier.

You pulled back as if you’d been shocked. “I… No!”

He opened one eye, the familiar glint of teasing starting to show. “Of course not. Didn’t notice a thing.”

You huffed, pushing his shoulder, determined to put some distance between you. “Stop, Peter.”

He laughed, but you felt the heat in your face as you looked away. Because, at that moment, you realized something you had been trying to ignore: you were in love with your best friend. Was there a greater tragedy?

And that thought stayed with you ever since, buried too deep for him to notice. Because, deep down, you knew Peter had always been the kind of person who could pull a smile out of you, even on your worst days. (...)

The week had been a real nightmare.

Since Monday, obligations seemed to pile up like an avalanche. Exhausting training sessions with the team, a particularly complicated mission involving a hostage rescue at an enemy base, and the weight of final college exams. Even your powers weren’t much help—quite the opposite. Convincing someone to cooperate with your siren voice required extreme mental control, and using it during the mission only added to the emotional exhaustion you were already carrying.

“You’ve got this, Siren’s Tear,” Kurt joked, trying to lighten the mood as he adjusted the communicator.

You smiled at him, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. Siren’s Tear. It was a nickname Peter had made up, a mix of joke and admiration that had spread among the X-Men. Normally, it made you smile. But this week, it felt like an extra weight.

The mission had been chaos. Explosions, confrontations, and life-or-death decisions in a matter of seconds. Even with Kurt’s teleportation and Ororo’s storm control, the enemies were better prepared than expected. You found yourself cornered more than once, forcing your voice to a dangerous limit to make guards lower their weapons. When it was all over, you could barely stand.

And yet, there was the rest of the week waiting for you: piled-up studying, reports for Professor Xavier, and a persistent feeling of inadequacy that whispered you never did enough.

When Saturday finally arrived, your body and mind were at their breaking point. All you wanted was a moment of peace, a break from missions, responsibilities, and any reminder of how difficult it was to balance the two lives you led.

It was in this state that Peter showed up.

You barely had time to process his entrance, as he appeared the way he always did—unannounced, without ceremony, with that playful smile plastered across his face. He held a bag of Twinkies in his right hand and a copy of Space Invaders in the left, as if there was no chance in the world you wouldn’t want to spend the next few hours with him.

“Hey, Siren’s Tear, missed you,” he said, completely ignoring the pitiful state you were in. He threw the bag of snacks on the sofa and started rummaging through the stuff on the table, talking so fast you could barely keep up. “I thought maybe we could relax a bit. I know you’ve had a crazy week, but guess who got the highest score at the arcade? Me. Of course, it was me. And I thought—”

“Peter…” you started, your voice hoarse from the repeated use of your power over the past few days. The pressure in your head was so intense you could almost imagine it exploding.

“—that maybe you could try to beat my record. But good luck, because I’m unstoppable. Seriously, they should rename the game ‘Peter’s Challenge’. What do you think?”

“Peter, stop.” You looked at him with no trace of humor.

He finally looked at you, confused, but with that smile still there, as if he couldn’t imagine that you weren’t on the same wavelength as him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, tilting his head, his dark eyes like coal examining you from head to toe. “You look like you could use a Twinkie. Or two.”

You closed your eyes, trying to take a deep breath, but fatigue and irritation finally broke through your self-control.

“I don’t need Twinkies, Peter!” you exploded, your voice louder than ever. “I need a minute of peace! Just one minute, without you talking nonstop, without you messing everything up, without you… Without you annoying me! Can you just disappear for a while?!”

The room fell into absolute silence. Both surprised, not knowing how to react. You had never shouted at him, not really. The weight of your words made your shoulders sink, a bitter taste in your mouth.

His eyes were wide, surprised, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Peter Maximoff, the boy who never stopped talking, was speechless.

You realized the gravity of what you’d said in the same instant, but before you could try to fix it, he took a step back, the usual smile replaced by something much sadder and more vulnerable. You had never seen him look so sad. Regret made your stomach burn.

“Wow,” he murmured, his voice low and hesitant, fingers fidgeting nervously. “I… didn’t know you could be influential without your powers.” He commented, his voice dry and brittle.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but he raised a hand, as if asking you to stop.

“It's okay,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll do what you want. I’ll disappear.”

“Peter, don’t—” He disappeared long before you could finish your sentence.

The characteristic sound of his speed faded as quickly as he did, leaving only a heavy silence behind.

You stood there, frozen in the middle of the room, your hand still extended in the air, the words you wanted to say stuck in your throat. An overwhelming wave of guilt washed over you, along with the emptiness left by him. Tears came before you could stop them, flowing hot and silent as you collapsed onto the bed.

Why did you have to explode at him? Why did you have to hurt the one person who always made a point of being by your side, even when you didn’t want to be?

You knew Peter had good intentions. He always had. He just didn’t know how to show them the right way.

But now, he was hurt.

And for the first time, you felt completely alone.

(...)

Three days.

Three days without a sign of Peter.

The Xavier mansion, always so full of life, felt suffocating now. You could barely look at the familiar faces around you without feeling a tightness in your chest. Everything seemed darker, slower, as if the world were mirroring the whirlwind inside you.

The others noticed, of course.

“Are you okay?” Jean asked, her voice soft as she touched your shoulder. You just shook your head, unable to respond. There were no words for the weight of regret you felt.

Even Logan, always so distant, paused as he walked past you in the hallway and gave you a concerned look. “If you need anything, anything at all, let me know,” he said, his voice low and serious.

But nothing helped.

You barely ate, barely slept. When you closed your eyes, all you saw was Peter’s face, the sad smile he tried to hide before disappearing.

“I’ll do what you want. I’ll disappear.”

His words echoed in your mind like a curse, a constant reminder that you had done what you never thought was possible: pushed Peter Maximoff away.

He had always been there. From the first moment, when you arrived at the mansion nervous and lost, he was the first to break the ice. You were startled by his repeated closeness. One moment you were alone, and the next he was right in front of you, all silver hair and easy smiles.

“So, what’s your power?” He leaned in, eyes narrowed as he looked at you with interest. “Can you make people give you free pizza? Because that would be impressive.”

It was a silly question, of course, but the way he said it—with that crooked smile and energy that was impossible to ignore—made you laugh for the first time in weeks.

And from then on, he had been a constant in your life.

You played Space Invaders until your hands hurt, stole treats from the kitchen on midnight missions, and spent hours in his basement (his mother’s) listening to records of bands he insisted were the best in the world. You knew he had tough moments, but he never let it show. He masked the pain with jokes and speed, and you loved him for it—the lightness he brought to your chaotic world.

Now, his absence felt like a hole in your chest.

On the third day, you were sitting on the living room sofa, staring at a book you hadn’t managed to get past the first paragraph, when you heard Kurt and Ororo talking in the distance. A draft of air carried his words to you.

“Peter didn’t show up for training again today,” Kurt said, his voice full of concern. “This isn’t like him.”

“He didn’t come to breakfast either,” Ororo replied. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Your heart sank the moment their words reached you. It was as if the world had stopped, leaving only the deafening sound of guilt pounding in your ears.

Peter wasn’t okay.

You knew that.

Rising, you left the room without saying a word, ignoring the curious looks from the others. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you knew what you needed to do.

Deep down, you already knew where to find him.

The Maximoff house had a peculiar charm that always made you smile. A mix of the '70s, nostalgia, and controlled chaos that perfectly suited Peter. But today, as you climbed the steps to the porch, your heart was too heavy to be swayed by the usual sense of comfort.

At the door, holding the stack of sweets and the pizza box—the favorite of both of you, with extra pepperoni and that crispy crust Peter always called “a gift from the gods”—you took a deep breath before knocking.

Mrs. Maximoff opened the door almost immediately, with her warm smile and curious eyes. “Oh, dear! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you!” she exclaimed, pulling you into a tight hug.

“Hi, Mrs. Maximoff,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

She stepped back, holding your face for a moment. “You look... tired. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Actually, I came to see Peter.”

Her expression softened, but her eyes shone with a touch of concern. “He’s in the basement. He spends most of his time down there lately.” She hesitated before adding, “He misses you, you know? And so do I. You bring good energy to this house.”

Her words were simple, but they hit hard. You gave a small, shy smile and a “Thank you,” before heading down to the basement, your heart pounding too fast in your chest.

As you descended the steps, a familiar soundtrack began to fill the space: the sound of an intense pinball game, interspersed with muffled music from a nearby radio.

Peter was in his element.

The first thing you noticed was the speed. He darted back and forth across the basement in a typical frenzy, alternating between playing the arcade game, taking bites of a Twinkie, and making quick adjustments to the stack of vinyl records by the old record player.

For a moment, he passed by too quickly, the movement so fast it looked like a silver blur. But even so, he paused long enough to take a good look at you. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the tired expression, and, most of all, the look of regret that seemed to weigh on you like a second skin. And, of course, you still looked beautiful as always, in one of those summer dresses that left your shoulders and collarbone on full display. God, he loved those dresses, and loved seeing you wearing them even more.

Peter went back to the arcade as if nothing had happened, but his game slowed down a bit, the movements less precise. It was enough for you to catch up.

He looked the same as always, but completely different. There was a crease between his eyebrows, his hair was tousled, and he looked disheveled.

You set the pizza and sweets on a makeshift table full of empty wrappers and called out, your voice wavering, “Peter, can we talk?”

He stopped pressing the buttons but didn’t turn around right away. For a moment, he stood there, his shoulders rigid, before straightening and turning to face you. “Sure. I’m all ears.” You felt small under his gaze.

The attempt to look nonchalant fooled no one. The tension in his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, and the arms crossed over his chest told another story.

You stepped forward, hesitating, really trying to find the right words. “I came to apologize. I was wrong, Peter. I was exhausted and overwhelmed, but that’s no excuse for yelling at you. I... I hurt you, and I’m sorry. You’re my best friend and... I really want things to go back to normal. For us to go back to how we were before.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head, letting out a long, heavy sigh. The gesture made your heart drop, as if you were falling off an endless cliff.

“No,” he said, his voice low but firm. A punch to the stomach wouldn’t have hurt as much.

“No?” you repeated, unable to hide the confusion and tightness that overtook you. Your heart sank in your chest, the feeling like falling.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable, shifting his weight between his legs. “I don’t want things to go back to normal,” he explained, his voice even lower, almost a whisper.

You blinked, completely bewildered. “What does that mean?”

He took a step toward you but stopped, maintaining a small distance. His eyes met yours, and the intensity in his gaze made you hold your breath.

“It means that I’m sorry too,” he began, his voice heavy with emotion. “I shouldn’t have provoked you like that, especially when you were already exhausted. But... I do it because...” He stopped, clearly struggling to find the right words.

“Because what?” you urged, feeling your palms begin to sweat.

This was it—Peter was a tiny step away from ruining everything again. But damn it, he had to risk it. He couldn’t just pretend he wanted to be just friends. How could he? It was painful to be so close and so far away at the same time. He needed more; he wanted more.

“Because I like your attention, okay?” he finally blurted out, his voice louder than he intended. “I like when you look at me, even if it’s to tell me to shut up or roll your eyes. I like when you smile at my stupid jokes, even if you pretend you don’t find them funny. And, damn, I like being near you.”

“Peter…” you began, but he raised a hand to interrupt you.

“I know, I know,” he said, laughing nervously. “I’m terrible at this. That’s why I always hide everything behind jokes and teasing. But... it’s true. I like you. I really do. And I don’t want things to go back to normal, because, to be honest, ‘normal’ was never enough for me.”

You stood still, each of his words piercing deep into your chest, but in a sweet, almost painful way. He was there, completely vulnerable, and you didn’t know if it was possible to love him more than you did at that moment. Your heart slammed against your ribs with each painful beat.

He felt the same. Peter felt the same.

You felt tears prick your eyes, but you kept your gaze locked on him, taking in every word.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you finally said, your voice heavy with emotion.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s annoying,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips. “But it’s also… everything I needed to hear.”

His eyes widened slightly, shocked by your confession. “Really?”

You shrugged, feigning casualness, but your smile gave you away. “So, are you going to kiss me or keep stalling?”

The surprise on his face turned into a mischievous grin. “Oh, so now it’s me who’s stalling?”

“Peter,” you warned, but he was already closer, so fast that you barely noticed the movement.

His hands cupped your face, purposefully slow, still with a small smile curled on his lips as he moved closer and closer. Your eyes closed as you felt his breath intertwine with yours, his sweet breath making you imagine that his mouth must be even sweeter. Gently, his lips molded to yours, remaining that way for a moment before he pulled back. You felt his chest rise and fall unevenly, as if he had run around the planet. Peter murmured something, too fast for your ears to understand.

The next second his lips pressed against yours again, hungry. His hand went down your spine, firming on your waist to pull you closer, crushing you against his chest as his lips explored your mouth. You sighed as you felt his tongue, soft and warm, slide across yours, kissing you deeply. He kissed you for what could have been an eternity, stealing the air from your lungs, turning you into a fragile creature dependent on the caresses of that wicked mouth.

When you separated, he refused to stop kissing you, rubbing his lips along your jaw, leaving love bites on the side of your neck, adoring every part of you, as if to make up for all the lost time. Small noises of pleasure escaped your mouth, your knees barely seemed capable of keeping you upright, so your hands quickly found support on his broad shoulders. “Peter.” You sighed weakly, feeling your face heat as he straightened, leveling your faces. His mouth was red and swollen, with a crooked smile, his eyes darker than ever.

“I should do this more often,” he teased, his voice low and husky, his fingers still kneading the soft flesh of your waist.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, gently brushing your hair away from your face, looking at you more closely. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone more serious now.

“A little,” you admitted, shrugging, afraid of ruining the moment.

“Then I think it’s time for you to rest.”

“But—” He didn’t allow any objections, guiding you to the bed nearby, wide enough for both of you. He settled down beside you, pulling you to lie against him. His fingers traced calming circles on your back. “You can’t send me away anymore, got it?”

You nodded, your face pressed against the curve of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent that dulled your senses. The accumulated exhaustion finally began to ease. “But I can still make you dance to ABBA in the street.” You joked, smiling as he shuddered dramatically.

“Do your worst, you little troublemaker.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, and countless others until he reached your ear. “Ask me to stay,” he whispered, and just because he could, he nipped the sensitive skin just below.

You shivered, holding him tighter in your arms, feeling his chest vibrate with a silent laugh. Raising your face, you used your siren voice. “Stay with me, Peter.”

His eyes widened in surprise, staring at you for long seconds before his lips curled into a devilish grin. “Fuck, can you do that again? Please, we need to test your powers when—”

“Peter.” You cut him off with a laugh, burying your face back against his chest, feeling your cheeks burn at the direction the conversation had taken. “Later, okay? Can we just rest now?”

“You don’t have to ask twice, love.”

The familiar sense of security you always felt around him returned in full force, but this time there was something more. Something deeper, more intimate.

With your face pressed to his neck, you hesitated for a moment before placing a soft kiss there, a silent thank-you for everything he was.

Peter tightened his embrace, and for the first time in days, you felt whole.

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