emmafrostdefender

[emmafrostdefender]

a fine line between god and animal | logan howlett x fem reader

chapter 1 - biting the apple | masterlist | read the prologue first

two new mutants arrive at the mansion.

i am churning this thing out and i have a very specific direction that i'm going to take it. the story does not really follow the canon plot because that would be boringgg. trust me, i know where this bus is heading. i hope you stay along for the ride! figuratively and literally! wink wink

warnings: cursing, religion, religious trauma, fighting, canon typical violence, 5.5k words

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“Before you all leave, I want to give you food for thought. One of the heaviest themes of Frankenstein revolves around the idea of nature versus nurture. Is the creature inherently evil, or was his treatment by society what turned him into a monster?” You pose the question to your students as class comes to a close.

The similarities to your own existence is not lost on you. You hope the metaphor clicks in their minds as it did yours when you first read the classic novel. Charles made it assigned reading when he taught comparative literature at the school. When you were old enough, you took the job. And you were inspired by some of his lessons, of course.

“We will be discussing this theme next week, so those of you that haven’t done your reading…” You don’t finish your sentence, but make a face that communicates all they need to know.

Your students leave the classroom and you slump against your desk. Despite your outside calm, inside your thoughts are racing. 

Scott and Ororo aren’t back yet and you feel as if you could break something. Or a million somethings. 

The reasonable part of you knows that if something bad happened, Charles would know and tell you immediately. But the unreasonable part of you wants to drain your energy source to find them. To sneak your mind around the globe until you pick up on their footsteps crunching the ground or their signature heartbeats sending pulses into the air.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are carrying you to the door that leads to the underground base of the X-Men. You’re going stir crazy.

Earlier in the day, before classes started, you assisted Jean in refining her powers. She wasn’t able to move a car with her mind, but she managed to start the engine without a key in the ignition. To you, that seemed more impressive. To the professor, it was exactly what he didn’t want. He wanted her to control her powers.

That word again. Control.

His reactions to Jean’s issues made you all the more wary to reveal your own struggles. With the recent revelation of Magneto’s scheme to abduct you, hesitancy bubbled up in your chest at adding anything more to Charles’ metaphorical plate. You would just be a burden.

Exiting the elevator, you enter the completely metal hallway, something of a labyrinth to newcomers. Your shoes echo against the metal and you look from left to right. No one else graces your path as you walk to the training room. There is another one upstairs that the students use when training with Scott, but you personally prefer this one. Far away from onlookers.

Your abilities don’t necessarily lend themselves to you having any physical prowess, but you managed to get trained up quite well in your years at the mansion. “The metaphysical is very much so connected to the physical. The health of your powers could very well depend on the health of your body,” Charles told you long ago. 

With nothing to do but wait, you change into the clothes from your locker and wrap your knuckles with tape. The large room is empty and you approach a punching bag. You begin. 

The rhythm you find is steady and fast. Hit after hit, blow after blow. The bag swings on its chain, bouncing back and forth between your hands. You punch and punch and punch, feeling anger build in your system. In your mind's eye, you see the bloody heart that was stolen from your chest. You see the chains holding you down. You see your mother’s face, staring at you in disgust. You see vines. Thousands of vines, each reaching to wrap themselves around your body, your arms, your legs, your neck. They rip the cross from your necklace, leaving a stinging brand there. You see your father’s lifeless form. 

And you feel your skull starting to split open when a voice says your name.

You nearly scream at the intrusion and your head flies around. “Holy shit, Jean! I could’ve killed you!”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she says with hesitancy. She’s looking at you like you’re a wounded animal about to lash out. Her eyes flit to the punching bag over your shoulder.

You look at it and gape at your handiwork. The bag ripped at the seams and sand spilled from the tears onto the ground. 

“Imagining Scott’s head?” She jokes, but it sounds strained. You hardly hear it.

You still stare at the punching bag, not quite sure what to make of this. You losing control was as infrequent as pigs flying, so…never.

A soft hand touches your shoulder. “Are you okay?” Jean asks so caringly.

You rip your gaze from the bag and look at her. You change your expression from one of near tears to one of slight amusement. “Must’ve gotten a little too enthusiastic.”

She analyzes you quickly, so quick you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know her so well. “I wanted to let you know that the jet is on its way back. They were able to locate the mutants.” You feel something in your chest relax. “Not in record time, though.”

You smirk. “Of course not. They didn’t have me.”

“Can you come help me prep the bay for when they get here?”

You nod. “Just let me change and I’ll meet you there.”

She turns to walk away and you watch her leave. Your gaze drops to your hands, where the tape did nothing to prevent the bruises forming around your knuckles. Looking at the clock hanging above the entrance, you realize two hours have passed. It’s nearly ten o’clock. 

As you enter the locker room, you swear you can still feel burning skin where your cross lays. 

You enter the loading dock of the jet in your regular attire and are greeted by Jean and the professor. They seem to be in deep discussion when you arrive, but snap their heads up the second they sense you coming. You can tell they were talking about you. 

You plaster a smile on your face and say sarcastically, “Looks like they managed to find them without me, after all.”

“They would’ve been here an hour after they left if you were with them, I’m sure,” Jean says with a playful roll of her eyes.

“Obviously.”

You shift your attention to Charles, who has begun using a computer to track the jet’s movements. Jean starts working the switchboard. You ask, “How many mutants did they pick up?”

His gaze does not move from the computer. “Two. A young girl and an older man. They were on separate paths until they met and started traveling together.” 

Your eyebrows furrow. “What made you think to bring them here?”

Charles has always been slightly particular when choosing the people to bring to his school. And even more hesitant to bring fully grown adults. At your question, his eyes shift to yours. “Why did I bring you to this school?”

You blink.

“To offer you protection. To offer you safety from a world that hurt you repeatedly. And to help you understand your abilities and use them for good. Not just to teach you Latin and calculus,” he adds with a smile. 

You nod, but still have a lingering question. “But why--”

He cuts you off, “Why am I bringing an adult man to our mansion as well?” He pauses. “Because he is extremely powerful. That kind of power can either be used toward the greater good, or harnessed for evil.”

By Erik.

“I see,” you say, hand mindlessly playing with your necklace.

Charles returns to the computer and says to you and Jean, “Get ready, they are nearly here.”

You are usually a part of the retrieval missions, making you less used to assisting with arrivals. However, you bring out two stretchers from the medical room and place them neatly by the door after getting a call from the jet. “They were in a rough fight with one of the members of the Brotherhood and the man is out cold. We think he has regenerative abilities so he isn’t badly injured, but the girl was with him when they got into a car accident. She’ll need attention. She’s jarred, but not unresponsive,” Ororo says.

Another of your jobs on the team is designated medic. You have innate knowledge of the human body and medical herbs because of your powers. It was never something you questioned when you were younger. If you scratched your arm or busted your lip open, you would skip into the woods and find something natural to heal yourself. Still, you begged Charles not to assign you to teaching biology. You despised the subject.

The ceiling of the hangar opens to reveal a velvety night sky. You feel the jet before you see it, the push it has on the trees around the mansion tingle your fingertips. The trees' movements stir your power source in your stomach, a warm, buttery feeling. The sleek aircraft lowers gently into the bay, your hair being pushed over your shoulders by the air movement. You feel relief at the sight of your friends returning from the mission; they exit the jet and you smile. Your grin droops at the sight of their expressions.

“We need you to look over these two, stat,” Scott says with urgency. 

You hurriedly bring the stretchers to the jet’s ramp and enter the main compartment with Scott and Ororo. Inside, they point you to a young girl, maybe sixteen years old, with brown hair and a soft face sitting in one of the seats. The two of them work to remove the man who sits slouched over in one of the front seats. The way they grunt, you’d think he weighs a ton.

The girl’s hands are wrapped tightly around the straps keeping her to the chair. When you approach, she jumps and stares at you with terrified eyes. “Hi, honey,” you say calmly. You introduce yourself. “I’m going to be taking care of you, okay? I just need you to undo these straps.”

She shakes her head tightly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” You ask. 

She thinks between the two options and asks, “Am I safe?”

Your heart breaks. Upset coils in your stomach at the thought of all the people who have hurt this little girl. “Yes. You’re safe here.”

She seems to think this over and makes her decision. Her hands shakily unlatch themselves from the straps and move to unbuckle herself. You reach to help her, but she flinches. “Don’t touch me, please,” she says with desperation.

Your hands retract immediately.

“I just, it’s my…” she struggles with the words. “I hurt people when they touch me.”

You nod in understanding. That must have been a terrifying revelation for her. “That’s okay. We’ll get you all sorted out here. You are okay.”

She seems to relax a bit. You look over your shoulder and see your two friends lugging the man down the ramp and rolling him onto the stretcher. If this were any other scenario, you would laugh at Scott for struggling so much. 

You turn back to the girl and say, “And what’s your name?”

“Marie-- I mean, Rogue.” The way she says it makes you think she is still trying out the name for size.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Rogue.” You look her over and ask, “Are you able to walk or do you need help?”

She has undone the straps and sits a bit more forward in her chair. “I think I can stand.”

Rogue puts weight on her leg as she moves to stand up, but winces at the feeling and immediately sits back down. 

“Can I touch your clothes or is that also a problem?”

“You can. It’s just my skin.”

You sling her arm over your shoulder, careful not to touch any exposed skin, and help her out of the chair. “Just put your weight on me, hon’.”

She does as you say and leans against you completely. When you have exited the jet, you help her sit on the stretcher. The others have left, presumably to attend to the man. Charles is the only one left and he moves his wheelchair over to greet the young girl. “What is this place?” she asks after his introduction.

“It’s a place for people like you. And me. And her.” He points to you and you feel yourself smile. “It’s somewhere safe.”

Your gloved hand moves carefully over Rogue’s legs, feeling for any fractured bones or torn skin invisible to the eye.

She’s been relatively quiet for the duration of her examination, but she asks, “So, what can you do?”

You look up at her and grin. “I can do a lot of things.” You stand and walk to the shelves of potted plants on the wall to your right. You hold up one of the more pathetic looking plants and say, “See how this one is all wilted?”

Rogue nods. 

You pull your glove off with your teeth. “Watch this.”

Once your hand rests delicately against the plant’s stem, its wilting flowers perk up. A lush green color returns to its body, becoming perfectly healthy again. You look over at her and her mouth is gaping at the sight. “But why do you keep all the plants here if they’ll die without you?”

You put the plant back in its place and slip your glove back on. As you make your way back to the examination table, you say, “That’s exactly why. The professor used it as a tool to help me understand my importance here. To help me distinguish between the big parts of my powers and the smaller, more delicate parts.” You shrug as you grab some medical tape meant to alleviate and correct sprains. “I also like having company when I’m down here.”

“Company?” she asks when you kneel before her again to start wrapping her ankle.

“They talk to me,” you say, slightly mischievously.

Her mouth gapes again. “So, that’s your mutation? Talking to plants?”

“It’s a lot deeper than that. The Earth and I are like two sides of the same coin. Through our connection, I can track people if they are grounded. I can grow and heal things, but also kill them. I can create beauty, but also take it away. And I’m recently starting to realize I’m much more connected to humans than I thought.”

She considers this as you finish wrapping her ankle. 

You laugh a little. “Most of those are Professor X’s words, not mine.”

Charles arrives after a few minutes of comfortable silence, asking Rogue to come with him. You give her a small smile and tell her, “Make sure to drink those herbs with water once every day. It’ll help the pain.”

She gives you a tentative smile back. 

Before she leaves, you squeeze her gloved hand. “You’re gonna do great.”

Once the two of them are gone, you decide it's time to check on Jean and the man. She took him to the laboratory where digital scans of mutants’ brains and bodies could be completed. You walk down the hall and enter the door to the left, seeing Jean in her white lab coat. She is analyzing what looks to be brain waves on the monitor in front of her. “Oh, good,” she says when she turns to see you. “I wanted you to take a look at him. See if there’s anything I’m missing.”

You approach the table where he lays and take your first real look at him.

He is shirtless to allow the nodes and wires access to his chest. You scan over his body, seeing no obvious outer injuries. His face is calm in his induced state of comatose, but etched with what seems like a permanent line between his eyebrows. You have the urge to smooth it with your thumb.

“His name is Logan Howlett. He has extremely impressive regenerative abilities.”

Your eyes continue to study the ridges of his face. “Is that his mutation?” The thought of Charles saying he is a very powerful mutant crosses your mind. 

“That’s part of it. Once he wakes up, we'll give him a chance to tell us more. And then we’ll do a full body scan; Charles thinks there’s something else to him. He’s not wrong. Logan’s brain activity is far different from anyone I’ve ever seen,” she says in slight awe.

You continue to gaze at him. There is something else to him. Something you can’t quite place.

“Could you check his vitals for me? I didn’t notice anything strange, but I want to be sure,” Jean asks.

Hesitancy fills your body. For some reason, you don’t want to touch him. Some sort of dread pits in your stomach. Something will happen. 

Despite your body’s strange resistance, you nod curtly. You approach the table and lean over him. His scent fills your nose. It’s woodsy and smokey, all mixed with something metal that twinges your nostrils. You close your eyes and inhale, pressing your hand to his chest. In a second, you’ve been pulled to him, a vice grip around your wrist. Jean yells and starts pulling at your shoulders. Your body goes alive and you twist your arm around and headbutt him, causing him to loosen his grip on you. However, the moment your skull collides with his, you nearly pass out from the impact. It feels like he’s made of metal. 

“Oh, my God,” you groan, collapsing to the floor. Your head is throbbing.

Before you or Jean can react, he’s jumped off the table. It looks like he’s grabbed six knives and placed them between his fingers. “Where the hell am I?” he shouts.

Jean holds up her hands, but you’re still recovering on the floor, holding your forehead in your hands. Jesus, fuck. You hope He will excuse your language.

“You’re at Xavier’s School for Mutants in New York. We aren’t going to hurt you,” Jean says calmly. “Well, not anymore.” Her eyes flick down to you and you make a face.

“It wasn’t my fault he fucking attacked me,” you say with narrowed eyes. You glance at him, annoyance replacing the pain that had swept across your forehead. “What’s with the claws?” you ask, now realizing that what you thought were knives were actually thin metal spikes protruding from between his knuckles.

He stares at you, chest heaving. Then back at Jean. Fury clouds his eyesight, but you know there’s fear in there, too. 

“Look, we’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe here,” Jean says again. “I just need you to calm down and we can talk.”

The throbbing has eased and you make your way to stand. 

Something like a sarcastic grin falls on his lips. “Oh, sure, we can talk.” 

You position yourself, readying for a fight. “Get Scott,” you say to Jean quietly. 

“You sure?” she whispers back.

“Yeah, I’ve got this.”

She looks between the two of you for a moment, then runs out of the room. You hear her shoes echo in the hallway. 

“You really want to do this, bub?” he asks in a voice so quiet, you nearly miss it.

You watch him carefully. You know that you’ll never beat him, but you can keep him occupied until reinforcements arrive. “Do you really want to do this?” you respond with a grin.

Something lights in his eyes, something thrilling that makes your heart pound. He pounces, jumping over the table, his claws aiming for your throat. You dodge the attack, rolling to the side. You are back on your feet in an instant, crouching low to the ground. “Got anything else in you, big boy?” you tease, grin spreading wider at his fuming expression.

He yells, running at you with a speed you wouldn’t think him capable of. He shoves you to the ground with retracted claws and you grunt at the impact, but kick his legs out from under him, causing him to fall to the floor as you crawl away. He yanks your leg, making you stumble once more. You kick with all your might, but he won’t let go. Thinking you might be the stupidest person alive, you let him drag you so you’re pinned beneath him. “Sexy,” you say with a wink.

You can feel his steady heartbeat this close. "You're annoying," he hisses. You see his eyes drop to the cross around your neck and take that as your opportunity to kick him in the groin. He grunts and his hold around you weakens. You shove him off of you and stand to make a move for the door. You don’t think he’ll kill you, but you don’t want to take that chance.

Before you reach the door, an arm wraps around your waist and pulls you harshly against a solid body. You hadn’t noticed before, but he’s tall. Very tall. “Where do you think you’re going?” he whispers in your ear.

It sends a thrill down your spine.

“Are you always this friendly?” you whisper back, hand coming up to touch his arm. Your fingers hardly wrap around his forearm.

In the blink of an eye, he has detached himself from you, falling to the floor. Your fingers tingle from the use of your power, slowing his heart rate enough that he would go unconscious, but not enough to kill him. With his regenerative abilities, though, you assume he’ll be back on his feet in about five minutes. You hardly ever use that ability, finding it invasive. With this man, however, you think your actions are justified.

You nudge his leg with your foot when Jean and Scott come running in. “Holy shit, you took him out yourself?” Scott asks incredulously. 

“I just slowed his heart rate so that he wouldn’t break all the bones in my body. I appreciate your faith in me, though, Scott,” you say, wiping your brow.

He approaches the man on the floor, coming to stand beside you. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. He nearly broke my skull, though.”

Scott raises a brow. 

“How are we going to get him adjusted if he won’t speak to us without starting a fight?” Jean asks as she starts to fix the state of the room.

“I think our best bet is to leave him alone,” you say.

Scott looks at you. His visor blocks his eyes, but you can tell they are looking at you as if you are crazy. “Leave him alone? He’ll wreak havoc trying to find a way out.”

You shrug. “I think there’s someone who might be able to convince him to stay.”

“Better than getting a face full of claws,” Jean says, glancing at his limp body.

Exhaustion washes over you when you take the elevator back upstairs. It’s three in the morning and the events of the day are finally hitting you square in the chest.

You slump against the metal railing of the elevator, relishing in the silence. Jean and Scott stayed with Logan to put him in a state of deep sleep so that he wouldn’t go stalking around the mansion at night. You could imagine how some poor child would react to running into such a large and imposing man in the middle of the night. It would be terrifying.

You run your fingers through your hair and pinch the bridge of your nose. His smell lingers around you, crowding your space. 

What a prick.

Fighting you like that when all you wanted to do was help him? What was he going to do? Kill you?

A part of you wants to believe that he wouldn’t do that, but another part of you understands that he would’ve done anything to get out of here.

Logan.

You test the name out on your tongue. You wonder if he has another name, too. Something all of his enemies know by heart.

Deciding that that was enough thinking for the night, you shut your brain off and exit the elevator. You make your way to your bedroom and collapse on your bed, sleep hitting you like a bus.

You wake, body aching and head throbbing. Although you managed to escape the fight with no outer wounds, your body protests as you remove yourself from your bed. Thank God it’s Saturday.

Thankfully, your mind allowed you a break from the night terrors that plagued you so frequently, instead replacing them with dreams of walking through a forest. As you walked farther into the dank, the trees began to die, but you woke before anything else could happen. 

You get ready for the day and make your way downstairs. In the kitchen, you see Ororo sitting at the counter with a mug of coffee in her hands. Before you can voice your question, she says, “There’s some in the pot.”

You grin and pour the coffee into your bright pink mug along with the creamer that sits by the pot. Scott calls the shade an affront to the color pink. “So…” you start.

“He isn’t awake yet. Charles thinks he’ll be up in an hour or so.”

Relief slumps your shoulders and you take a seat across from her, moving the coffee around in your mug before you take a sip. “He is crazy strong, Ororo,” you scoff. “It felt like his skeleton was made of metal. And his claws…” You shake your head.

“Charles thinks he’ll be useful to us.”

“I know. I just hope he calms down a bit.” 

Ororo gives you a sheepish smile. “You have to admit, he is handsome, though.”

You laugh. “That’s the impression he gave you?”

She shrugs. “I might have a different one if I had to fight him.”

You contemplate her statement. You suppose he was handsome, but it didn’t startle you when you first saw him. It was the kind of beauty that creeps up and you don’t realize it until you’ve been staring at them for too long. He was rugged, yes, but there was something enticing about his looks. A boyish quality. You remember the smirk that donned his face when he challenged you to a fight.

You shake your head. “Yeah, he definitely made an interesting impression.”

The two of you leave the kitchen once some of the older students begin filing in, many making their own breakfasts instead of eating the provided meal with the other students in the dining room. “Are we training today?” you ask as the two of you walk down the main hall.

“I think Charles wants us to wait until he’s spoken with Logan. Wants us to meet him properly.”

You roll your eyes. ‘Meet him properly.’ Tackling someone to the ground isn’t a proper greeting?

“Be nice,” you hear someone say behind you. Jean falls into stride with the two of you. 

“Jean! Don’t read my thoughts,” you say, pushing her lightly.

“But you think so loudly,” she complains.

The three of you make your way outside, deciding to steer clear of the mansion until Logan has had his conversation with Charles. “I really don’t want to run into him again. It would not be conducive to a healthy future relationship,” you mutter.

“He is kind of volatile, isn’t he?” Jean asks rhetorically. “I mean, he attacked with no real provocation.”

“Waking up in a room you’ve never been in with two strangers isn’t provoking enough?” Ororo asks, taking a seat at one of the lawn tables. You join her, leaning back in your chair.

Being in nature calms your nerves, but also sets them alight. Your senses come to life again and you hear the running water of the fountain, the wind whistling through the trees, and the small animals stepping in the grass. As Jean and Ororo continue their conversation, you close your eyes and lean your head back and allow yourself to connect. It is only the second day after the full moon, which means your sensitivity to everything around you is still high. You pull at the energy from the ground, letting it throb through your body. You feel the aching in your body disappear, feel your muscles rejuvenated, feel the blood pumping through your veins.

You hear the humming of a man’s voice, scratchy and slightly off-key. It’s a voice you haven’t heard in years. He’s humming something that only graces your ears in dreams. It scratches your scalp and kisses your forehead. Dad.

You steady your breathing, trying to latch onto his voice. You’ve never experienced this in the daytime; it usually only happens when you’re asleep or in a deep meditative state. The words of your friends fade away.

In your mind’s eye, you stand from the table and follow the humming into the woods. You stumble over fallen branches, but your unusual miscoordination doesn’t prick the logical part of your brain. All you can think of is your father. His voice roaming through the trees, taking you deeper into the woods. And suddenly, you are somewhere else.

The church. 

His voice is gone.

“No,” you whimper, turning into a young girl again. 

You feel the shackles of the past lock around your wrists, forcing you to your knees. A screech escapes your throat at a forcible yank of your hair backwards. You look up to see your mother staring down at you. Her eyes are pitch black. “Your father rejects you. Even in death, he will not visit your wretched soul,” she says with a sneer, pulling your hair farther back. It feels as if she is trying to rip it from your skull.

“He never rejected me,” you spit.

“Are you so sure?”

You open your eyes with a deep inhale. It wasn’t real. You remind yourself.

Jean and Ororo stare at you, waiting for your response to something. You subtly shake your head of the images conjured by your mind and ask, “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

You hope they assume your exhaustion from last night got the better of you and you simply dozed off for a moment. “Logan is ready to meet us,” Jean says, her eyes a reflection of worry. Not toward meeting Logan, to your dismay.

“Oh, great.”

Despite a desire to remain calm, your heart thunders in your chest. You worry your cross between your fingers. You have no idea what to expect from him; you fully believe he will pounce at you again. 

Ororo holds your hand as the three of you enter Charles’ study. Scott sits on the armrest of one of the chairs in the room, arms folded over his chest. Charles is behind his desk and sitting ever so casually on the edge of the desk, is Logan.

He wears a gray X-Men sweatshirt and the jeans he had on when he arrived at the mansion. His eyes fall to yours immediately, recognition filling his gaze. You break eye contact dismissively, going to sit on the other armrest of the chair Scott sits on. You keep your eyes strictly on Charles, but you feel Logan’s on you. Your heart doesn’t steady.

“Everyone, this is Logan Howlett. The Wolverine,” Charles says, gesturing to the man sitting on his desk.

Scott huffs a laugh. “Wolverine? Like the animal?”

You nudge him in the side. “As if Cyclops is any better.”

Charles clears his throat. “Please.”

“We are the X-Men, some of which you have already met.” Charles gives you a pointed look. You throw your hands up in defense. “I promise you not all of your introductions will be so…violent.”

Scott snickers. 

“Shut the hell up,” you hiss. Your eyes flick to Logan’s. He watches the interaction between you two carefully.

Charles goes around the room, introducing each of your friends to the stranger. When he gets to you, Logan’s stare bears into you heavier than it had before. It intimidates you, but doesn’t scare you. Charles tells him your name, following with, “Others know her as Proserpina, the Roman goddess of spring.”

You don’t expect him to say anything, but his voice fills your ears for the first time since last night. “The goddess of spring is who knocked me out cold last night?”

“It’s not just nature I can manipulate,” you say tersely. “Bub.”

His eyes narrow as his lips turn up in a smirk.

Charles finishes the introductions and tells the team that training will commence in thirty minutes. The second his spiel is over, you stand. Deciding to jump into the fire, you approach Logan. “Sorry about last night,” he says.

It takes you by surprise. You expected more of a fight from him.

“Uh, it’s okay,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “You gave me some much needed practice.”

You sense your friends watching your interaction from afar. Although they are conversing casually, you feel their eyes on you.

“Yeah, you seemed a little rusty, Pro.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you seemed a little overzealous, Wolverine.”

He grunts. “If that’s overzealous, then I worry for your boyfriend.” He points to Scott on the word boyfriend.

“Scott?” You laugh. “Now, that’s a good joke. You’re funny.”

A look of confusion crosses his face and you leave him like that, feeling content with how the conversation ended. Screw a healthy relationship.

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i had to get this out of my brain or i was going to go crazy. i hope you enjoyed! im excited to keep writing them :)

[emmafrostdefender]

a fine line between god and animal masterlist

an ongoing logan howlett x female reader series

your mother was a god-fearing woman. but she feared you much more. some part of you was wrong, at least in the eyes of god, but you answered to something much bigger. and so did he.

ao3 link

prologue - that which cannot be held in your hand

I. biting the apple

II. title pending

[emmafrostdefender]

a fine line between god and animal | logan howlett x fem reader

prologue - that which cannot be held in your hand | masterlist

your mother was a god-fearing woman. but she feared you much more. some part of you was wrong, at least in the eyes of god, but you answered to something much bigger. and so did he.

hi friends, this was written when i was struck with inspiration by the one and only ethel cain. of course, the inspiration was paired with my recent renewed interest in wolverine and x-men. some of the characters are more like how they are in the comics because the movie writers did them dirty! like jean slays in the comics okay! anyways, i wanted to write about wolverine and it be sexy in an ethel cain way. do we get the vibe? i hope so. also, i, in fact, do not have religious trauma but if you do this might be the story for you. enjoy.

warnings: cursing, religion, religious trauma (will pick up), lowkey a lot of blasphemy, people be bad sometimes, reader's mother was not chill, a ton of exposition (sorry!), i’m writing this mainly for practice (especially regarding dialogue, so that’s why some of it might be kinda choppy), definitely won't be canon compliant, 4k words

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By the grace of some unholy god were you created.

The priest with silver hair expelled the demons from you; those crawling, crushing, wriggling, squirming demons that lived within you. Those demons that whispered in your ears, caressing your skull with a language lost to time. They pushed to be revealed. Today, your mother shoved you to your knees before the altar of your true Mother, the Mother of all. “Holy Mother, bless this rotten soul,” she whispered by your side, eyes clenched shut. You watched her. There were no tears, not for your lost soul. Your rotten soul. As if your morality was like an apple. Something that could shrivel up and die if left too long in the scorching sun.

Your skin crawled under the light that beat down on you through the skylights of the church. The air was thick with incense and smoke from the ever-burning candles. The stench filled your nose. Your mother grasped your hand in hers, forcing you to focus on her words. She spoke so quietly, so quickly, you’d think she was chanting some spell. Something to save you from your fate.

“Heavenly Father, take the Devil’s spirit from her body; take this ugly, horrid wickedness from her.”

You closed your eyes, not in prayer, but to lend your ears elsewhere. To the birds chirping outside. The wind whistling through the trees. 

You were connected to nature. In some primal, peaceful way.

Before your father died, he would take you into the woods and you would wander together. Sometimes you would pack supplies for overnight trips, sometimes you would bring nothing but your spirit with you. Now, you thought he knew that something was different about you before you did. When you were a stumbling child, he knew. There were days he would force you to lead the both of you back to safety after getting you lost in the middle of the woods. Force you to reveal yourself to him. The part of you that God shunned.

And you did.

Your spirit became one with the natural world around you. You could hear and smell and see. For what felt like the first time. It was a beautiful thing that came over you.

The trees spoke to you, in their ancient language lost to humanity. And you spoke back. Using sounds that had never before emerged from your lips. 

And they led you home.

Never once did your father ostracize you for your gift. That’s what he called it. A gift.

When you turned sixteen, your gift shifted. You fought back as it reared its ugly head at you. It pushed and pulled at your insides, begging to be released fully. The day your father died, lying still in a sterile hospital bed, it burst out of you. The monotonous tone that rang out death filled your ears as you lay beside him on the thin sheets. He wasn’t supposed to die like this. Not here. The thought blared in your brain. He should’ve been somewhere he could see the sky, the trees, the clouds, not the plastered ceiling of a hospital room.

In your memory, nothing changed. But your mother, eyes blurry with tears, watched as something inside you morphed. You became still, grasping your father’s hand, and whispered something that sounded to her like sin. The tongue of some animal, some demon. She watched as her daughter became something unholy. Your eyes went pitch black, your skin glowing with a soft light. And suddenly, vines were creeping into the room from all around.

Through the window, the door, from the cracks in the ceiling. Crawling to the thrumming in your veins. The winds answered your call, blasting open the window, broken glass scattering across the linoleum floor. Your mother screamed at the sound. 

As vines wrapped around your ankles, around your father’s bed, your mother watched as you continued your senseless muttering. She couldn’t move to stop you. She began to chant a prayer of protection. For herself, for her husband’s lifeless body, for your soul. 

Anger filled your spirit, the anger of a thousand year old mother. Tar filled your veins, smoke filled your lungs, oil in your eyes. The drilling, the pounding, the burning, the slaughtering. It all pushed into your brain as the vines choked your soul. And you screamed.

Your mother grabbed the metal tray from your father’s final meal and slammed it against your head.

And she continued to pray. Gripping your hand until it hurt. And you let her. Let her expel the demon from you. 

Your bare skin bathes in the moonlight shining through the early autumn foliage as you sit on your knees before a different altar. 

You cringe at the memory of your bruised knees and that crushing hold on your hand. Begging God to turn you into a flower, while your mother begged for your mortal soul.

You shake your head to clear the memory. That was ten years ago now. Seventeen and terrified of who you were, what you were. She was wrong about you and you were wrong about you. 

The day the priest came to perform another exorcism of sorts, something that had no effect on you whatsoever, a new man had entered your bedroom. A man in a wheelchair. Professor Charles Xavier. He saved you. 

Made your mother forget who you were.

And you came to live on a beautiful estate in upstate New York with people like you. Mutants. A word used in such a way you had never heard before in extremely rural Oklahoma. “What do you mean, mutant?” You asked, not sure if you should feel insulted.

Professor X looked at you from across the plasticky diner table, studying your features. You studied his right back. Soft eyes and a kind smile. Such a stark contrast from your mother’s severe gaze and thin-lipped grimace. “Mutants are like regular people, only with a mutated gene that gives them special abilities. I’ve been studying mutants and their mutations for decades. Each mutant I meet is unique and you are no exception.”

Your eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly as you sipped on a strawberry milkshake. “How many are there?”

And so began your relationship with Charles Xavier. He became your mentor, someone to go to for guidance. He assisted you in harnessing your abilities, treating them like a muscle to train rather than a burden to bear. And yet, every night you prayed to God that you could be rid of it. That you could go back home and live a normal life. 

In your years at the mansion, friendships blossomed all around you. You never made friends easily back home, but here they came quickly and firmly.

And you felt complete. You are complete. You remind yourself.

Something deep inside of you grumbles in response.

You ignore it and stretch your arms to the sky, cupping the moon in your hands. The moon is slightly out of your jurisdiction, but she controls the tide, which controls the winds. It all works in harmony, you’ve learned. When another girl with similar mutant abilities arrived at the mansion a few years after yourself, you became close partners. Storm, Ororo by birth, was your closest companion. She had striking white hair and a piercing gaze and a personality to match. In combat, she is your most trusted partner. 

You spin your arms in a practiced circle, beginning to feel the thrumming of power in your veins. Every full moon, Charles would send you out into the woods of the estate to become one with your abilities. He says the most dangerous mutant is a mutant that severs all connection to their powers. One that has no real idea what they are capable of. “They could destroy a whole city and not understand why,” he replied when you first asked him the meaning of these exercises. “You must be in tune with yourself if you ever want to feel some semblance of control.”

Control. The word forced a shiver down your spine. Mother Nature revolts at it.

And yet, you managed to tame the primal part of yourself. The part that screamed to be let loose. 

The world pulses around you as your eyes flutter shut. This is your favorite part of the night. When you merge with the natural world. When you feel and hear and see everything around you. The flapping of an owl’s wings. The beat of a young doe’s heart. The smell of the moss and the dirt and the stream miles away. You feel another heartbeat. This one is firmer. More distinct. It reminds you of the steady thumping of your father’s heart when you would lay on his chest as a small child. You can’t pinpoint its location. It seems to come from everywhere at once. A sense of serenity washes over you. 

And you simply listen.

You spread your fingers on the plush grass below you, feeling that heartbeat skitter along your skin and wash itself in the blood that pulses through your veins. You hear the sound of drifting snow, feel its cold sting before it melts against warm skin. Your eyes scrunch up as you focus. The thought of even wondering what you’re tuning into never crosses your mind. You just want to keep feeling and hearing. Your gluttony for the senses takes over and you taste the sheen of melted snow on this stranger’s skin as if you licked it yourself. Salt and something man. You hum. And then you smell something so distinctly like smoke that you are thrown from your reverie. Your body repulses against itself and you cough. Being connected to Earth has its disadvantages. 

Desire to return to that state of complete contentment fills your mind, but you stand. Your nude form basks in the moonlight for not a minute longer. You shrug a pretty little silk robe on and make your way back to the mansion. Although it is early October and New York has not yet succumbed to the winter weather, you still feel the keen chill of snow. 

As you slowly walk back to the mansion, the new thrum of energy courses through you. It spreads down your legs to the pads of your feet, which leave trails of newborn flowers. As quickly as they are born, they die. The circle of life and death. Darkness and light.

The exact breadth of your powers is still unknown to you and your fellow mutants. Before being taken in by Professor X, you thought they were limited to simply being one with nature. The memory of your father’s death and the events that quickly followed were hazy, but being far away from your mother and her religious zeal allowed you to connect to that piece of your past. To your chagrin, Charles refused to go into your mind to help you remember. It took you two months to fully remember the events. Memories came in dreams, waves of disconnected images all straining in your mind. The first night Charles sent you into the woods to “figure it out,” the pieces fell into place.

And you finally knew yourself again.

Now, you’ve chalked your abilities up to being a reincarnation of Mother Nature, a realization that pulls at the small cross that rests in the hollow of your neck. Despite the trauma incurred by your mother in the name of the righteous God, that part of yourself hasn’t been severed. You remember your father knelt in the church, clasping the chain around your neck, thereby forever bonding you to your faith. You’ve never feared any man you’ve gone against in combat, but you fear the one waiting to judge you.

If He’d even bestow that luxury upon you.

You look up at the sky as you step through the woods, drawing lines between the stars like the ancients. Stringing stories and myths and legends. You wonder if the monsters of olde were simply mutants, like you. Misunderstood and begging to be believed.

The soft glow of the mansion enters your vision. The weight of sleep hits you in the shoulders and you slouch to the back entrance. All the young mutants are asleep at this time, but you hear the skittering of a few rebels in the halls. The mansion never fails to awe you, with its tall wooden walls and bright windows. A far cry from your small rancher of a childhood home. You pass the main entrance and make your way up the stairs that lead to your bedroom on the third floor. This floor is for the older mutants, the X-Men.

Originally, you declined Charles’ offer to be a part of the mutant bad-guy-fighting team. A lack of confidence in yourself, you realized later on. The belief that something was still too wrong with you to even have the ability to help anyone. That belief changed rather quickly. 

When you realized there wasn’t much of a place for mutants in this world, you accepted his offer. You took on the name Proserpina, the Roman goddess of spring, at the behest of your teammates. Despite your initial disdain towards the alias, you soon grew fond of the name.

Your ears perk up at the sound of whispering voices down the hall.

Coming from Jean’s room.

Jean Grey is another member of the X-Men and another close friend of yours. You were one of the first people she met when she arrived at the mansion a few years ago. You were the first to confront her about her obvious feelings for Scott Summers, who is something of a brother to you, before she even recognized them herself. You are the first person she goes to whenever she feels out of control, which seems to be more frequently as of late. “He wants you and Storm to track them down,” she says in a soft voice.

“Just the two of us?” Scott asks.

You assume she nods.

You raise your eyebrow. Track who down?

Deciding to enter the conversation, you continue to her room and open the cracked door fully. “What, so Charles doesn’t want me tracking anymore?” You question with a hand on your hip.

They both stand in the center of the room and turn their heads to look at you. Jean rubs at the space between her eyebrows. “Not necessarily. He just isn’t sure you should go on this one.”

“Why? Is it because we’d be fighting Captain Capitalism or something?”

Scott quirks a smile. “He’s found another prospect for the X-Men.”

“And how does that impact my ability to find them?”

Jean approaches you slowly. “Don’t be offended, honey, but sometimes you come off a bit…”

“Bitchy,” Scott finishes with his arms folded across his chest. 

Your mouth drops open and you move to slap him or punch him or kick him, but Jean puts her hand on your sternum. “I meant to say, you can come off a bit guarded. And that isn’t always helpful with new recruits.”

“But no one is better at tracking than me,” you say with a pout. “Besides the obvious.”

“Sorry, babe, Charles isn't letting you come on this one,” Scott says with a grin. “Too bad.”

You flick him in the forehead and he flinches. “Asshole.”

“You can stay here and help me with my exercises. Charles is trying to get me to move a car,” Jean suggests. “I know,” she says in response to your eyebrow raise. 

“You can barely move a book without it flying at your face. Or, in most cases, my face.”

She shrugs. “Out of the frying pan and into the fryer, I guess.”

“Fine. I’ll be nice.” You turn to leave and toss a dismissive hand up behind you at Scott. “Good luck tracking without me, bitch.”

He hums. “Goodnight.”

As you shut the door he throws out, “Can’t wait to bring them back in record time tomorrow!”

Them. So it’s multiple. Interesting.

That night, your dreams are filled with images of your old church. The windows stain everything around you a blood red. 

You are on your knees before the altar of Mary. But today, her hands are folded away from you. She scorns you with a downwards glance of repulsion. You know this isn’t real. It’s not real.

Yet, your body burns in her gaze. Your skin is on fire and no one is there to quell it. You are chained to the floor by your hands, you feel your chest being cracked open to onlookers. Your heart is yanked from your ribs, your impure blood oozing from gray hands. Roaming hands belonging to a wisp of smoke pull at your bones, branding them in silver. Bugs crawl out of the cavity in your chest, maggots and cockroaches. You scream and the onlookers laugh. Your body vibrates with fear and disgust. And you scream. 

You wake with hands pinned to the bed by your own force, your necklace set between your teeth. 

Your nightgown is soaked in sweat, sticking to your skin. Your heartbeat pumps hard and fast in your ears, an almost unbearable sensation. Not the way you hoped the night would go.

Despite appearances, you are used to the nightmares that plague you whenever there is a full moon. With the resurgence of your power, comes a resurgence of memories. 

You spit the cross out of your mouth and slam your head against your pillow. 

Dawn has skipped across the sky, bringing streaks of hazy light into the darkness. You stare at the ceiling, allowing your heart to return to its usual rate.

It seems like the dreams are only getting worse with time. You thought they would subdue after a few years, but they’ve been building steadily. And you would never tell Charles that, lest he pry into your brain and see for himself. You couldn’t let him, or anyone, see that part of you. The part you worked so hard to tamp down. It would only make things harder.

Therapy for one?

You laugh in self-pity and sit up, your muscles tense. You stretch out your arms, moving them in circular motions as you control your breathing. The last thing the team needs is something else to worry about. Magneto, your main opposition, has been pushing harder and harder toward his goal of world-domination and mutant-superiority. Charles doesn’t need another burden. You crack your neck and stand. 

Your room has floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the gardens and the woods. A special request you made the first time you moved in. You can just barely see the sun beginning to peak over the horizon, glimmering off the dewy leaves. 

Someone knocks on your door. “Yes?” you ask, turning to face the entrant.

The only other person ever up this early is Storm. She stands before you in her leather suit, stark white hair hanging by her shoulders. “Put some clothes on, Charles wants to speak with you.”

“You don’t think he’d appreciate this?” You gesture to your sweat-stained dress.

“Bad dream?”

You shrug. “I was actually having very passionate sex with Christian Bale.”

“Slut!” She smiles, but her eyes see right through your lie.

You wink. “Always.”

Ororo is the only person you’ve let see the terrified side of you. The side that you keep locked away. And it makes your skin crawl when she sees straight through you. As if she’s the one that can read minds.

When you’ve changed into a sweater and jeans, you follow Ororo downstairs to the professor’s study. The sun has fully risen by now, along with many of the students. You dodge sleepy children and annoyed teenagers as you make your way to the study. 

“I’ll wait out here for you,” Ororo says softly as you open the study door. 

“I feel like I’m about to be scolded for something.”

She laughs.

You shut the door behind you and see Charles sitting at his desk. “Good morning, Professor.”

“Take a seat.”

You grin as you make your way to the plush seats in front of his desk. “Am I in trouble?”

He smiles back. “No, you’re not in trouble. But I did need to speak with you.”

You nod, allowing him to continue.

“I understand that you already know about the retrieval mission Scott and Ororo are to be sent on today?”

“Yes, I overheard Jean mention it to Scott last night.”

He hums. “How was your night besides?”

He’s referring to your monthly ritual. You smile. “It went well.”

“Anything interesting occur?” he asks with a quirk of his brow.

You narrow your eyes slightly. Is he asking about the dreams? You pivot. “Not really. I seemed to connect to someone far away, though. That hasn’t really happened before.”

He nods, a glint in his eye. He knows you’re omitting something. But he lets you get away with it by switching the topic. “I suppose you might be wondering why I’m not sending you on this particular retrieval?”

You shrug, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “I mean, it crossed my mind. But it’s your decision.”

“I’m not sending you not because you aren’t useful, you must understand. Or because of you’re 'attitude,' which I must admit, I disagree with. You are truly the best tracker we have. And you are fairly good at calming new people down. However, I have recently been made aware of a plot by Lehnsherr to somehow use you to further his plans,” he says with a straight look on his face.

Before you register the second part of his statement, you feel smug pride at the fact that you were right and Scott was wrong. “Wait, he wants me?”

Charles nods. “Yes, it seems he believes your mutation would be useful to him. But I am not aware of how exactly.”

“How were you able to read his mind?”

“We were both at a speech given by Senator Robert Kelly a few days ago. I found his mind in my scan of the room. His is much different from everyone else.”

The unspoken part: We are connected.

The professor never seems to fully admit the strong connection he has to Erik Lehnsherr, but you sensed it the same way you sensed Jean and Scott. It might be different, it might be the same, but the history they share has never fully dissolved.

You wonder if a part of your mutation is sensing innate connections between people. That invisible force that pulls some together, while pulling others apart. That which cannot be held in your hand. You suppose it is something only nature could define.

He continues. “He believes that your connection to nature could be used in conjunction with his control over metal. How? I’m not sure. I’m not sure even he knows.”

You consider this, bringing your hands together. “So you’re nervous I wouldn’t be able to hold my own against his goons?”

“Not necessarily. But if you were abducted, we might not be able to reach you. It’s safer if you stay here with all the protections this mansion affords.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

“It’s the only reason I need.” He looks at you with such care that your annoyance pauses. “If not sending you on a monotonous tracking mission means keeping you from uneccessary harm, then I will do it. Even if it upsets you.”

You break his gaze and sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

He leans back in his chair and smiles.

“I just hate seeing Scott’s ‘I-did-better-than-you’ face. He’s so smug,” you whine.

“You two have that in common, I see.”

The grin that spreads across your lips is impossible to fight.

Scott and Ororo board the jet after an hour of briefing from the professor about where the mutants are most likely located. Somewhere in Canada. Far, far north.

Before they head off, Scott ruffles your hair. “Hey, don’t look so disappointed. You can stay here and grow some flowers or something.”

You shove his hand away from you. “Shut up.”

“Save that fire for when we get back. You never know what these mutants are going to be like. They could be gearing up for a fight.”

“I think I’ll just let you handle that, since you’re so confident you’ll even be able to find them properly without me.”

“It’s not just confidence. It’s a guarantee,” he says with a grin.

“Whatever. Be safe.”

“Always am. Keep Jean company.” 

“Mhm. ‘Bye now!” You say with a wave of your hand.

Jean exits the jet where she was speaking to Ororo and comes to stand next to you. Ororo gives you a thumbs up and she and Scott exit your line of sight. Although you would never admit it, you like going on these missions to keep your teammates safe. And not being able to protect them itches at your skin. Before you go crazy pacing in the hangar of the jet after it takes off, just waiting for them to get back, Jean reminds you of her own practice.

“Time to move that car!” You say with gusto, hooking your arm with hers. 

You fight the urge to glance behind you. Your other hand comes up to worry the cross at your neck. They’ll be fine. 

ugh i know i know she didn't meet him this chapter aw man....

[emmafrostdefender]

masterlist | ao3

logan

ongoing series: a fine line between god and animal masterlist

crush one-shots:

I. part one

[emmafrostdefender]

crush | logan howlett x female reader

hi everyone! i wrote this for fun. it'll probably turn into a series of small chapters while i write my more hefty logan fic. i hope you guys enjoy!

warnings: reader's kinda horny i guess, sexy man, based on crush by ethel cain, 1.5k words (i wrote this in like an hour)

You’d seen him around town. 

At the laundromat with the blinking fluorescent lights. At the dingy bar around the corner from the laundromat. At the gas station, filling up the tank of his red truck.

You never thought to say hi, never to engage with him in any way. 

He created such a stir when he first arrived. No one moved to your town unless something was truly wrong with them. Most of the men had leering gazes and dangerous intentions, but not him. Never him. You were in his vicinity frequently, but never once did he attempt what many others had. All failures, of course.

You lived contently in your grandmother’s old home, moving there after her cancer took a turn for the worst a few months ago. When she passed away quickly after that, she left the house to you and you decided to keep it. It still smelled like cigarettes, the stench burned into the walls and carpet, but the smell reminded you of childhood trips to Kansas. Those trips were scorched to the back of your eyelids, forever being replayed. Everything was the same as when you were a child; the small Mexican restaurant, the old movie theater, the arcade that closed seven years ago.

 Now, you sat behind the counter at the small antique shop you spent most of your days in. It was quaint, filled to the brim with every kind of knick-knack you could think of. There were crates filled with records and CDs, most scratched or completely unplayable. There were pieces of furniture, dusty mirrors, moth-eaten upholstery, chipped paint jobs, and broken hinges. The bookshelves that lined the walls of the store were stacked with books. You’d taken a few home in the past, knowing that they wouldn’t be missed.

And the clothes. There were racks on racks of vintage clothes. Most were out of fashion (even for the time they were made) or damaged. Still, you liked to play dress-up every so often. 

The job was boring and mundane, but it paid the bills. The family who owned the store didn’t seem to have time to keep up with the place, so you managed the inner-workings of it.

Today, you watched cars go by, wondering when would be the best time to cut your losses and close for the day. Some days you managed to get more than a few browsers, but today was not one of those days. You had one person come in around lunch, but they looked for about five minutes before heading out.

Your mind wandered as you watched people walk by the storefront.

You thought of him. The man you saw everywhere. The man who never spoke to you, not even to say, “Excuse me.”

The man that just walked through the front door.

Eyes widening, you sat up straighter and calmed your heartbeat that suddenly thundered in your ears. “Welcome in! Everything with a blue tag is sixty percent off today,” you said with a bright smile.

He simply looked over at you and then continued his perusal. 

You deflated. Harsh.

As he walked around the store, you felt like a live-wire. Every creak of the floorboards sent your heart spinning in your chest. You hadn’t felt like this about a man since you still called men boys. Being in your late twenties, that meant a very long time.

You grabbed a box of donations from the back room and moved to the floor to start stocking items on the shelves. You rationalized your decision to suddenly start restocking items after having a full day to do so by telling yourself that if you looked busy, he might feel inclined to buy something. You could nearly feel your nose growing by the second at that thought.

Moving through the rows of shelves and assorted items was second nature to you at this point, knowing where everything went in this mess of a store. You conveniently moved to the side of a shelf that viewed his aisle through gaps in the many items strung about. As you placed a silver mirror on the shelf, your gaze moved to watch his face on the other side of the rack. He was stunning.

You hadn’t had much time to analyze him; it was only small glances here and there in the time he’d been around. Now, you took your time. He was looking at an old book, bound in red fabric. It looked as if it had seen the bottom of a sewer. Luckily, he seemed to be making a careful inspection of the text, giving you enough time to look him over.

He was beautiful in a rugged kind of way. He looked like he worked with his hands; they were large and rough, with calluses around the fingers. His knuckles were prominent with sharp edges. You wondered what he did for a living. Did he move here to get away from city life? Was he a runaway circus performer? You internally smacked yourself in the head for the stupid thought. 

He’d probably make the circus look sexy, though.

He had a large figure hidden by a flannel and white t-shirt. His attire pointed to him being a worker of the land. A farmer, maybe. That would check out with the truck you'd seen him driving around in. Always covered in mud with logs of wood piled high in the back. 

His hair was a rich brown and you wanted to dig your fingers into it. You wanted to feel his beard against your skin.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You don’t have sex for so long that your brain goes fuzzy at the idea of a stranger’s beard scratching your neck. God. Get a grip.

You straighten your back and continue restocking things. Play it cool.

Soon, you fell into the rhythm of it, nearly forgetting the other person in the room. You moved to the bookshelves, loading more books onto the already strained wood. People really needed to stop donating things to you and start actually buying things. You’d be out of business by next summer. 

As soon as you realized you needed to go back to the stock room to grab another box, you heard a grunt behind you. You nearly jumped out of your skin. You dropped the box you were holding and faced the man. Your mystery man.

He was so close, you could smell him. He smelled like smoke and sweat. You felt yourself salivate.

You looked him in the eyes for the first time. “Do you need help?” You asked quietly, scared that he’d run off if you spoke too loud, like a wounded animal. 

“How much for this?” He asked, keeping your gaze. His voice was smooth.

You looked down to his hands, which were holding the book he had been examining earlier. “It doesn’t have a price tag?”

He shook his head. 

Now you felt like you were being held under a microscope. The way his eyes ran over your face made you go red; you hadn’t felt this flustered because of a man in a long time. 

“Okay, I can check at the front,” you said, keeping your quiet tone.

He just grunted again and followed as you led him to the register. You had a book of all the prices for things so that you could properly mark them. If you didn’t have the vague feeling that you were going to explode at any moment, you’d know off the top of your head the price of that tiny book. It was about the size of his hand, making you bite the inside of your cheek. 

You opened the book and searched for the page with book prices. When you found the page, you ran your finger down the list.

Small = $1.99

When you looked up at him, you jumped a little. He was looking at you with such intensity, you’d thought he was going to have an aneurysm. It made your cheeks flush again, but you cleared your throat and said, “It’s $1.99. With tax, it’ll be $2.30.”

He nodded, putting the book down on the counter as he reached for his wallet. You read the book title: Frankenstein. “I love Mary Shelley,” you said as you reached for a brown paper bag. 

He looked at you, his expression not revealing anything.

For some reason, you decided to keep talking. “It’s such a perfect analysis of ‘how far is too far’ in science and experimentation. I loved reading it in high school, I think you’ll really enjoy it,” you said, not particularly needing a response. 

He placed the exact change due on the counter and looked you in the eyes as he said, “Thank you.”

Your heart fluttered. “You’re welcome…” You trailed off, hoping to God that he’d tell you his name.

He thought about it for a moment. “It’s Logan.”

You smiled. “I’m glad you stopped by, Logan.” You introduced yourself. It would be nice to have another person to say ‘hi’ to on the street. And you imagined he was thinking the same thing.

His face didn’t jump into a smile, but it didn’t look as harsh as it did when he first walked in. 

And so began your crush on the stoic man who moved to town.