All of You, All of Me [Logan Howlett]
Summary: In a world of black and white, the only person who could bring colour to your life is the last one who'd want to.
Warnings: au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, fem!reader, slow burn, angst, running away from feelings, pining, grovelinggg
WC: 14.2k - MASTERLIST
- A/N: help i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to get this long, but this fic is my baby
----
You've always cherished the idea of having a soulmate—someone who would love you unconditionally, waiting just for you as you them. The thought of finding that perfect match, the one who complements you in every way, is something you’ve always dreamed of.
But as you get older, the hope you carry seems to dwindle more and more each year. Everyone around you has found their other half, reveling in the newfound ability to see colours in all their glory, and soaking up every moment of shared affection.
Everyone, except for you.
Your world remains a stark, colourless void, as if the universe is deliberately withholding the one thing you desire most.
And to make matters worse, despite not finding your soulmate, you are unequivocally, irrevocably in love with someone who has.
Logan Howlett.
You can’t remember a time where you didn’t feel anything toward him. His rugged, lone-wolf demeanor snuck its way deep into the crevices of your heart, and made itself a home there.
You and him formed an unlikely friendship, formed through the desire to fight back against all the people who’ve wronged mutants. Over the years, you had accepted the fact that while he wasn’t yours, at least you were alone together. Well, until she came.
Jean Grey.
She was strong, charming, and everything you felt you weren’t. It was no wonder her and Logan were meant to be together—the stoic, brooding mutant and his graceful, strong-willed counterpart.
You remember the day it happened so vividly, it’s almost like you were the one who found their life partner. You and him had been walking around the mansion, when Charles had called you into his office to meet someone new. One look at their faces when they made eye contact and you knew you’d lost him.
It pained you to see them all over each other, all the time. Your once-regular walks in the garden became rare, then vanished entirely. On missions, he no longer looked out for you; his attention was consumed by protecting her. And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t deny they seemed perfect for each other—just as soulmates should be. You had no right to feel jealous.
Then, just as quickly as she had entered his life, she left it.
The Pheonix was too strong, ripping her apart from the inside out. The pained scream he let out as not only his heart died, but as the world around him faded back into black and white, was forever ingrained into your memory.
Logan was never the same after that.
—
You trudge down the familiar halls of the mansion, your feet heavy with the weight of the day. It’s been long, filled with training sessions, team meetings, and a lot of paperwork. All you want to do is retreat to your room, lose yourself in a book, or maybe just sleep until the ache in your chest dulls.
As you walk, you hear faint commotion down the hallway—a low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something being moved. But you pay it no mind, too lost in your thoughts to care. Another mission, another discussion, another moment where you aren’t needed. It’s all so routine now.
Lost in your reverie, you don’t notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, the impact jolting you back to reality.
“Oh, sorry—” you begin, stepping back, but the words die on your lips as you look up.
It’s Logan.
Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, shock rippling through your body as you process his presence. And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, taking him in—the man who was once your closest friend, the man who was torn apart by grief and loss. His clothes are rumpled, his skin rougher than you remember, like he’s been through hell and back.
You hadn’t seem him in a long time. After the devastation, he stopped talking to everyone. He holed himself up in his room for days at a time, only coming out in the dead of night to eat. Either that, or he was away on a mission–anything to stay distracted.
But now, looking at him, there’s something different off. Something you can’t quite place your finger on. Did he always look like that? Maybe it’s the way the light above is reflecting off of him. Or maybe it’s—oh.
Looking around in surprise, you watch as the usually dark, stoic walls explode into a deep, rich shade. The carpet below you—no longer a mural of grey—radiates colors you can’t name. Your hands, his eyes, his hair-
You want to open your mouth and say something, anything, to the man who has caused your world to shift on its axis, but he’s already turned, walking away from you.
“Give me a fuckin’ break.”
----
Brown. Logan’s hair is brown.
After Logan leaves you paralyzed in the hallway, you run to your room, find the book on colors you had stashed in your bedside table, and throw open the cover. In it is a diagram that displays every known colour and their names. You learn that your favorite pair of pants are maroon, your bedsheets are navy green, and the X-Men suits are bright yellow and blue.
You stare at the page, each word blurring as your mind tries to process the impossible. Logan’s hair is brown. The thought keeps repeating in your head like a mantra, over and over again, until it becomes a steady thrum, drowning out everything else.
Brown.
You sit back on your bed, letting the book slip from your hands, the pages crumpling as it hits the floor.
Why him? Why me? Why now?
You begin to fidget, the adrenaline of the prior moment causing your heart to flail in your chest like crazy. You can’t stay here, you think to yourself. The idea of locked in your room with only your thoughts for company does not sound appealing. You need air, something to ground you, something to clear the haze clouding your head. Without thinking, you jump out of bed and find yourself heading up to the roof, the one place where you can breathe without feeling like the walls of the mansion closing in on you.
The trip up the stairs feels longer than ever before, each step heavy under the weight of your mind. It’s like every thought adds ten pounds. When you open the door, the cool night air hits you like a welcomed slap to the face, and you exhale deeply.
Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing. You’re in a daze - wondering if you made up the entire thing in your head. The only proof that you haven't, and that Logan being your soulmate is real, is the colours that coat the mansion’s grounds. The moonlight bathes everything in what you now know as a soft, silver glow, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking out into the distance.
It doesn’t make sense, and the more you try to wrap your head around it, the more tangled your thoughts become. You don’t want to face the possibility of what it could mean, but you can’t just brush it aside either. It has quite literally changed your entire life.
You close your eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet your racing mind. But when you open them again, you freeze.
Logan is standing at the other end of the roof, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sky. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and for a split second, you consider turning back, retreating before he sees you. It would be a wise idea - he didn’t want to talk to you then, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to you now. But, it an act that can only be seen as your own body betraying you, you take a step forward.
The sudden movement catches his attention, and his head snaps in your direction, his eyes locking onto yours.
“Why are you here?” he asks accusingly.
You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Seeing him out here was the last thing you had expected, and now that he’s in front of you, you are at a loss of words.
Logan’s eyes narrow, and he pushes off the wall, walking toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I needed air,” you manage to say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just needed to clear my head.”
“Well, find somewhere else to do it,” he snaps, “I don’t want company.”
“Logan, I—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, not even bothering to hear you out. “Don’t start. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it.”
You blink, taken aback, and hurt at his coldness. “What are you talking about?”
He lets out a low, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? God, I… this is all so fucking stupid.”
Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”
“Enough!” he barks, his voice echoing in the night. “I’m not interested, alright? Whatever it is you think is happening between us, it’s not real. It’s just some stupid trick of the universe, and I’m not playing along.”
His words hit you like a physical blow - like you’ve just been shot at right in the heart - and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this—”
“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snaps at you, “And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like there’s something here,” he gestures between you two, “when there isn’t. You’re not mine, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”
The finality in his tone leaves you breathless, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. You have nothing to say back, he’s not giving you any slack. The reality of his rejection sinks in with a brutal, crushing weight, you have to put in effort to not stumble over.
After a long moment, you finally collect yourself. Then, “Okay,” you whisper. “I understand.”
Logan’s expression doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows colder, more distant.
“Good. Then stay away from me.”
You nod, eyes filling with tears. You quickly turn your face away, not wanting him to see just how much he’s hurt you.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge your apology. He just turns away, his back to you, effectively shutting you out.
You stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away for the second time that night. The colours that seemed so vibrant, so full of life just a moment ago, now feel like a cruel reminder of everything you could never have.
—
When you eventually return to your room, all you can do is lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your encounter with Logan on the roof replays in your mind on an endless loop, each harsh word he’d thrown at you cutting deeper than the last. It’s causes pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, pain that seems to have no end, no respite.
If he doesn’t want you in his life, you’ll accept that. You have to - it’s not like you have a choice. Soulmates are a two-way street.
You can’t force him to feel something he doesn’t, can’t make him see you in a way he clearly never will. And you understand, don’t you? You can’t even imagine how difficult this would be for him. Losing your soulmate, and then the universe saying Fuck You and giving you another?
You’ll never ever forget how wrecked he was when Jean died. How her death shattered him into pieces so small you weren’t–no–you’re still not sure he’ll ever be whole again.
And you—where do you stand in the grand scheme of things? Just as the unfortunate recipient of a bond that neither of you asked for? Are you even allowed to be upset about this?
—
Waking up the next morning, you honestly wish you hadn’t. You knew you weren’t on good terms with Logan after his little rooftop showcase of emotions, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts to treat you.
His face is stuck in a perpetual scowl when you’re in his vicinity. He’s leaving every room the moment you enter, refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge your presence in any way. It’s as if you’ve become invisible, a ghost haunting the same halls you once shared with him. There’s only one thing you two seem to wordlessly agree on: don’t tell anyone.
Each day following becomes a struggle, an unbearable test of your strength as you try to make it through without breaking. You begin to avoid Logan as much as he avoids you, but the mansion is only so big, and there are always moments when you catch sight of him in the distance, his broad shoulders hunched, his brooding face glaring daggers in your direction.
It hurts you every time, an unending torture that leaves you stumbling. Still, you bite your tongue and keep moving, pretending you don’t care.
But you do care. You care more than you want to admit, more than you think is possible. Because despite everything—despite the rejection, the coldness, the anger—you still love him.
And that’s the cruelest twist of all.
So you endure it, day after day, week after week, month after month. Letting it tear you apart piece by piece, because what else can you do? You carry this burden alone, just as you’ve carried your feelings for him all these years. And maybe one day, the pain will fade, the bond will weaken, and you’ll be able to move on.
—
The only person you tell is Charles.
“What’s on your mind, my child?” he asks one day, while you’re sweeping the dust in his office.
You hesitate, your gaze dropping to your hands as you focus on cleaning. You know he’s just asking out of courtesy, and that he could easily crawl into your mind and figure it out himself. He probably wouldn’t even need to put in that much effort, given how loud your thoughts are. But still, you don’t yield to his probing.
“Nothing, really,” you mutter, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just… tired, I guess.”
Charles watches you carefully, his eyes full of the warmth and compassion he always has, but this time, it makes you feel uncomfortable. Like he can see right through the facade you’re trying so hard to maintain, which you have no doubt, he does.
“I’m here to help, whatever the burden.”
You want to groan. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose but damn does it feel like he’s trying to guilt you into confessing that you just recently had your heart shattered.
“I know, Professor. But… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“You forget, I worry about all of you,” he replies gently. “It’s in my nature.”
The chuckle that crawls out your throat is nothing short of bitter. “It’s just… complicated.”
“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”
You bite your lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay. Do you really want to explain to him the insurmountable suffering you’re in, the rejection you faced from the one person who is supposed to be your soulmate? How can you tell him that the bond the universe forged is the very thing tearing you apart?
“It’s just… I don’t know how to make sense of it, Professor,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s so… wrong.”
He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Wrong how?”
Knowing that you’re teetering into confession territory, you hesitate, needing time to collect your thoughts.
“Logan… he… we… It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?” you eventually get out. Not your best work, but you know he’d get the gist.
Understanding dawns in Charles’s eyes, and you can see the sympathy there, the quiet acceptance of the truth you’re struggling to voice. “The bond you share… it’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”
You nod, feeling the tears well up again. “But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me.”
The professor sighs softly, and he looks at you like you’re a lost puppy. “Logan has been through so much, more than most could bear. His heart has been wounded in ways that are difficult to heal, and it’s not surprising that he would resist this new connection.”
“So why me?” you ask. “Why bind me to someone who will never love me?”
Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully, he says, “I wish I had an answer for you, my dear. The universe works in mysterious ways, ways that often defy our understanding. But I do know this: the bond you share is there for a reason. Whether it’s meant to bring you closer or to teach you something important… that remains to be seen.”
“It feels like a punishment,” you whisper, the tears finally spilling over. As much as you hate being put on the hot seat, you can admit that it feels good talking to someone about it. “Every day, it hurts more. And he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
“The heartache you’re feeling is profound, but you must understand that it’s not your fault. Logan’s reaction isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of his own pain and fear.”
He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your own before continuing.
“To love, even when it’s not returned, takes incredible courage. But you must also take care of yourself. Give Logan the space he needs, and in the meantime, allow yourself the grace to heal.”
So you do. In the days that follow your conversation with Charles, you make a promise to yourself—to try, really try, to focus on your own life, to reclaim the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by the pain of this unrequited love.
The colours are still there, vivid and vibrant, and though they sometimes feel like a bittersweet reminder of what could never be, you find moments where they bring you joy. You marvel at the deep blue of the sky, the rich greens of the trees, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and paints the world in golden hues. It’s like seeing the world anew, and in those moments, you allow yourself to feel happiness.
Moreover, you busy yourself, volunteering for every assignment that comes your way. The adrenaline, the focus, the purpose—they all help to drown out the pain, even if only temporarily. And when you return from each mission, tired but satisfied, you feel a little more like yourself again.
The mansion, too, becomes less of a prison and more of a home once more. You start spending more time with the others, rejoining them for meals, for training sessions, for movie nights.
You laugh with Rogue, spar with Scott, and even find yourself engaging in playful banter with Remy. It’s not perfect, and there are still moments where you catch yourself faltering, when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under, but those moments are becoming fewer and farther between.
You’re healing, slowly but surely, and with each passing day, you feel a little stronger, a little more in control of your life—of your emotions.
But then there are the times when you cross paths with Logan, and those moments are the hardest.
One evening, after returning from a particularly grueling mission, you find yourself heading toward the kitchen, your mind on the sandwich you plan to make. The place is quiet, most of the team out on various assignments, or finishing up on some work, and you relish the peace as you walk down the corridor.
However, just as you reach the kitchen door and push it open, you find Logan standing there, preparing to exit the room at the exact same moment. Your heart lurches, and you stop dead in your tracks, almost like a deer caught in headlights.
His gaze meets yours, and all you can see is his impassive, stoic expression. He steps back, giving you space to enter, but the tension between you is palpable.
“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Logan doesn’t say anything, barely nodding—if you could even it that— before brushing past you, his shoulder grazing yours. The brief contact sends a jolt through your system, and you have to force yourself to stay still and not physically react.
Once he leaves, you let out a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the encounter. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him—so long since you’ve seen the deep brown of his hair that you love so much. You hate this.
Why does he have no reaction to at all? Why is it only you who seems to care?
Because you are the only one who does care.
You move into the kitchen, still intent on eating, but it’s a challenge. Your hands are trembling.
—
It all comes to a head one night during dinner. In this rare occasion, both you and Logan are in the same room. You’re supposed to be celebrating Rogue and Gambit’s anniversary, and even though you insisted that they share this special moment together alone, they didn’t take no for an answer.
That’s how you find yourself, sitting at the grand dining table with all your friends, and Logan.
He’s across from you. Just your luck.
He refuses to spare you a single glance, his eyes staying busy the whole night. And while it’s been months and months of this, you have never gotten used to it. Still, you can’t help but sneak a few looks at that chocolate-coloured hair. Brown.
Everything seems to be going smoothly, the food is delicious and the dessert even better, but when Gambit presents Rogue with a giant painting, that’s when you slip up.
“I love how you blended the red with the blue!” You compliment, loving the way he managed to create the perfect contrast between shades. You’re too caught up in staring at the artwork to realize the table as gone deathly quiet, all eyes on you.
Rogue's expression is one of gentle confusion, her head tilted slightly as she tries to make sense of your words. “Darling, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”
In any other situation, you’re sure the team would have laughed at how comically large your eyes got, and how all the blood draining from your face makes you look like a gaping fish, but in this moment, nothing is funny. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, and when you finally muster the courage to glance at him, you see that his all-too familiar glare you’ve been subject to for the last half-year. It makes your heart thud painfully in your chest
“I…” you begin, but you falter. Your mind is going through a thousand thoughts per minute, searching for an excuse you can use to deflect, to pretend it was just a mistake, but the silence is too heavy, too demanding.
Rogue’s confusion deepens, her gaze flickering between you and Logan, who is now staring at you with an expression that’s impossible to read. She starts to say something, but Remy gently places a hand on her arm, shaking his head slightly as if to tell her to let you speak.
Logan’s gaze stays locked on you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and before you can react, he stands up and walks out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.
The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and the tension in the room thickens. You feel a rush of embarrassment flood through you, your heart sinking as the reality of what just happened crashes over you.
You lower your head, your eyes stinging with tears that you fight desperately to hold back. But it’s no use. The emotions you’ve been trying to keep buried for so long bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the tears start to fall.
“I think I need a moment,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling as you stand up from the table. Without waiting for a response, you hastily excuse yourself and head for the door, not before mumbling a quick apology to the couple in which you were there for.
Soon you find yourself outside in the gardens, the nightly breeze hitting your face as you make your way to a secluded bench. You can’t even appreciate the beauty in what you see, because all you feel is the overwhelming sense of failure and sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.
Sitting down heavily on the bench, you bury your face in your hands and let go. The sobs come hard and fast, each one ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. You’re heartbroken and angry and absolutely over it, but at the same time you feel like a massive asshole because who are you to be upset with a man who’s mourning the loss of a soulmate?
It’s not fair.
You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in your grief, but eventually, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, wiping at your eyes, and see Scott walking toward you.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks gently.
You shake your head, unable to find your voice, and Scott sits down beside you on the bench.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”
Scott clicks his tongue in disagreement, his gaze focused on the gardens ahead. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s clear you’ve been carrying this burden for a long time. It’s no wonder it slipped out tonight.”
“So everyone knows now?” you ask. He nods.
“It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” he concludes, and you groan, bringing your hands to your face.
“I just… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be pitied.”
“Pity isn’t what anyone feels right now,” Scott says softly. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been hurting, and we didn’t see it. That’s on us.”
“It’s not your fault,” you bring your hands down from your face. “I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I thought I could handle it, but… clearly I was wrong”
With a serious expression, Scott turns to look at you. “I know what you’re going through, more than you might realize.”
You glance at him, surprised by his words. “You do?”
He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was in love with Jean, remember? When her and Logan found out they were soulmates… it tore me apart. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, and for a long time, I couldn’t.”
The mention of Jean’s name brings a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, but there’s also a strange comfort in knowing that Scott understands your pain. “How did you… how did you get through it?”
He sighs, “It wasn’t easy. It took a long time, and I had to accept it.”
You wipe at your eyes again, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Taking a longer mission, just to get away for a bit. Maybe then I can figure out how to move on.”
He is quiet for a moment, considering your words. “If that’s what you need to do, I understand,” he says, “sometimes, a change of scenery can help. Though I think you should try to talk to Logan again.”
Letting out a bitter laugh, you shake your head. “I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me. He’s made it pretty clear how he feels.”
“He’s hurting too,” He decides, “He’s not handling it well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You both need closure, and running away won’t give you that.”
“What if it just makes things worse?”
“It might.” Scott places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “But it might also give you both the chance to start healing. You deserve that chance.”
You nod slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
“Take the time you need,” he says. “We’re all here for you.”
“Thanks, Scott. That means a lot.” You offer him a small, grateful smile.
With a final nod, he turns and walks back toward the mansion, leaving you once again alone in the quiet of the gardens. You take a deep breath, the idea of leaving still tugs at you, but now, there’s also the thought of confronting Logan—of finding some kind of closure, whatever that might mean.
You really don’t want to do it, and you’re pretty sure it’s just going to end the same way it did last time - with him shutting you out. But Scott’s words echo in your mind, reminding you that healing often requires confrontation, not avoidance.
Goddamn it.
You huff as you stand up from where you’re seated. You can’t keep running from this, can’t keep letting him run from this. You need to talk to Logan, to lay everything out on the table, even if it tears you apart in the process.
Your anxiety builds with each step as you approach his room, and you pause outside his door, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he could hear it if he was listening. This is it. There’s no turning back now. With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand and knock.
There’s a long, agonizing pause, making you strain to hear any movement on the other side. For a second, the silence causes you think he might not answer, that he might just ignore you like he’s done so many times before. But then, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. Your heart catches in your throat as it slowly opens, revealing Logan standing there, his expression hard and unreadable.
The moment he realizes it’s you, his eyes darken, and he immediately moves to close the door, shutting you out yet again. However, you’re not letting him get away that easily. Before the door can fully close, you stick your foot out, blocking it with more force than you intended.
“C’mon, Logan,” you press. “You know we need to talk.”
He freezes, his grip on the door tightening until his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, nostrils flaring. He still doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he can will you away if he tries hard enough. But he doesn’t push the door shut either. The room is thick with suspense, both of you standing there in a silent standoff.
Finally, with a low growl of frustration, Logan steps back, opening the door just a smidge wider, barely enough for you to squeeze through. It’s a reluctant invitation, but it’s all you need.
“Fine,” he mutters, his voice rough, edged with irritation. “Talk.”
You step into the room, and he closes the door behind you, lingering close to it, as if he’s ready to bolt at any second. You feel vulnerable and exposed. It’s suddenly hard to gather your thoughts when he’s standing so close, when the heat of his presence and the distance he’s placed between is right in your face.
“Why did you come?” Logan questions. He still refuses to look directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“Because we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening,” you reply, “We need to talk about what’s going on between us.”
His jaw tightens further, and his teeth grind with barely contained frustration. He finally looks at you, his eyes hard and defensive. “There’s nothing to say,” he says bitterly. “I told you how I feel. I thought that was enough.”
“It’s not enough!” you shoot back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just push me away, pretend like this bond doesn’t exist, and that’s supposed to solve everything? It doesn’t work like that, Logan.”
He flinches slightly at your words, but his keeps his expression hard. “Well what do you want me to say?” he demands, his voice rising. “That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt you? Because I am, and I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be what you want me to be.”
His words hurt.
“I know you told me how you feel,” you start, “but you’ve never let me tell you how I feel. You’ve never given me the chance to say that it’s been tearing me apart.”
A flash of guilt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you needed to say it. I already knew.”
“That isn’t fair,” you argue.
“You don’t understand,” he counters, “I lost Jean. I loved her, and when she died, it broke something in me. And now… now I’m supposed to just… move on? With you? It’s not that simple.”
“I never asked you to love me, Logan,” you say, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. “I never pushed for anything more than friendship—it’s not like you gave me the chance! You’ve been shutting me out, ignoring me, making me feel like I’m nothing more than a burden, like I don’t even matter!”
You can see that the pain in your voice hitting him hard, but he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he looks away, his expression conflicted. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters, the words sounding hollow even to him
“Protect me?” you echo incredulously. “All you’re doing is make me feel like shit. Like I’m worthless. I can’t even be your friend, to help you through this.”
You pause. “You expect us all to know how you’re feeling, but you can’t even communicate it.”
Logan winces, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, filled with a torment you’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get caught in his throat. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he admits, his tone filled with a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t know how to let you in. Without her, I feel like… I can’t let anyone in.”
Your eyes soften a fraction his confession, but there’s also a deep frustration that burns inside you, a frustration born of months of pain and rejection.
“You haven’t even tried,” you say softly with a quiet resignation, “You haven’t even tried to let me in, to see what we could have been, even if it was just as friends.”
What follows is a long, nagging silence. You let it linger, giving Logan the chance he needs to think of something to say. But there’s no answer, no promise that things will change, and then you realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not going to take that step, too broken to try.
That’s when it really hits you.
Whatever you were fighting for, was a losing battle from the start.
You give up.
This time, it is you who turns your back on him.
“Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself.”
You don’t wait for a response. You don’t glance back. You walk out of the room, the door closing softly behind you, and with it, the last remnants of hope you had for something more.
—
You decide to go on the mission.
It’s nothing complicated. Your task is to survey different regions of Europe, ensuring that there are no burgeoning anti-mutant operations threatening the safety of anyone. The primary goal is gathering information, and quiet observation. No violence, Charles told you in the debrief.
The lack of immediate danger doesn’t make leaving any easier, though. This is as much about finding yourself as it is about fulfilling your duty.
Rogue and Kitty are with you during your final preparations, helping you pack the essentials and offering support in their own ways. They don’t ask many questions, probably sensing that this decision was not just made on a whim. And for that, you’re grateful.
“I still think you’re crazy for going solo,” Rogue says with a half-smile as she zips up your bag. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”
You manage a small smile in return. “Thanks, Rogue. I just need some time…”
Kitty, who’s been quietly folding clothes and tucking them into your bag, looks up, seriousness clouding her gaze. “We get it. Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And don’t hesitate to call if you need backup.”
“I promise,” you assure.
She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small device—the X-Men communicator gadget. She holds it out to you, and you reach your hand out.
“Here,” she says softly, pressing the device into your hand. “This is so you can update us on your whereabouts, your status, or any important mission details. Even if you don’t need anything, just… let us know you’re okay, alright?”
You look down at the communicator in your hand, and close your fingers around it, nodding as you meet Kitty’s gaze.
“Alright, I’ll check in regularly. I won’t leave you guys in the dark.”
Rogue finishes the last bit of organization. “You’ve got this,” she says, “And we’ve got your back, even from a distance.” You nod, appreciating their support more than you can express.
It almost feels like a walk of shame—leaving the mansion. Everyone knows why too, and that makes it a thousand times worse. But you won’t let it get to you. With one last look, you get in your car and begin on the windy path to the airport.
—
When you arrive in Europe, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Each city, each town, has its own unique charm, its own story to tell. The bustling uphill streets of Porto, the serene canals of Venice, the ancient ruins of Athens—they all offer a distraction from the turmoil inside you.
The only good part about this whole mess is that you can see colour, and truly appreciate the sights before you.
You move from one place to the next, blending in with the crowds, quietly observing, gathering information, and sending brief updates to the team through the communicator Kitty gave you. Every message is short, to the point, just enough to let them know you’re safe and on track. You don’t share much beyond the essentials, not wanting to burden them with your personal struggles.
Then, in a small café in Rome, you meet a man named Marco. He’s a traveler like you, exploring Europe with a curiosity that matches your own. He’s warm, easygoing, and before long, the two of you strike up a conversation over coffee.
He is charming in a way that makes you feel at ease, his laughter infectious as he shares stories of his travels. You don’t tell him much about yourself, keeping the details of your mission and your mutant abilities hidden. To him, you’re just another traveler, searching for something—though he doesn’t pry into what that something is.
As the days pass, you and Marco continue to cross paths, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t know about your past, about the things you’re running from. With him, you can be anyone, and for the first time in a long while, you start to feel a little lighter. You find yourself laughing more, the weight on your chest lifting a little each day. You don’t talk about the mission, and you certainly don’t talk about Logan.
One evening, as you’re both sitting on the steps of the Spanish Steps in Rome, watching the sunset, he turns to you with a grin. “So, where are you off to next?”
You hesitate, not wanting to reveal too much, but then you smile. “I’m heading to Florence. There are some places I need to check out.”
His eyes light up. “Florence? I’ve been meaning to re-visit. Mind if I tag along?”
A part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance you’ve carefully maintained, but another part—the part that’s been lonely for so long—nods in agreement. “Sure, why not?”
—
Back at the mansion, things haven’t been as positive. The once lively atmosphere has dimmed, replaced by an uneasy tension that lingers in the halls. The X-Men carry on with their duties, but there’s a noticeable shift—a missing piece that everyone feels but no one talks about. Logan, in particular, has become even more withdrawn, if that’s possible. The man who was once brooding and distant now seems even more so, his mood volatile and unpredictable.
His behavior has become a source of concern for the team. He’s always been rough around the edges, but now, it’s like the slightest thing can set him off. He snaps at everyone, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. On missions, he’s reckless, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, as if he’s trying to outrun something—or someone.
In many evenings, Logan finds himself in the mansion’s gym, trying to work off the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for months. The room is always empty, save for him, the steady rhythm of his fists pounding against the punching bag being the only sound. Sweat drips down his face, his muscles straining as he channels all his frustration and anger into each punch. Yet, no matter how hard he hits, he can’t seem to shake the thoughts of you that have been haunting him.
This night, door to the gym creaks open, and Logan doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He can sense the other man’s presence, feel the weight of his gaze as he steps inside. He doesn’t slow his punches, doesn’t acknowledge Scott’s presence, but he knows why he’s here. They’ve had this conversation before—or something like it—but nothing’s changed. Nothing’s gotten better.
Scott watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He’s been watching Logan spiral for weeks now, but he’s kept his distance, knowing that he’d only be pushed away. But this can’t go on—Logan can’t keep doing this, can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he refuses to confront.
“She wouldn’t want this,” he finally says, voice cutting through the steady thud of Logan’s fists against the bag.
Logan’s movements falter for just a second before he resumes, his jaw tightening. “Who?” he growls, not bothering to turn around. “Her or Jean?”
Scott doesn’t flinch at the harshness in the other man’s tone. He steps closer, his eyes steady on their target as he answers, “Both.”
Finally, Logan stops. His fists still as he leans against the bag, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His shoulders are tense, the weight of Scott’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s lost—of who he’s lost.
Taking a step closer, Scott’s voice is firm. “Look, I’m not a spiritual person. But I also don’t think the universe messed up with this.”
Clenching, his fists, Logan knows what the other man is getting at, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Doesn’t want to think about what could have been, what he’s been too scared to even consider.
“I know you know how I felt about Jean,” Scott says quietly, knowing he’s breaching a sensitive subject. “Losing her… it killed me too. And if I had been given a chance—a real chance to be with her, to make things right—I would have taken it. No hesitation.”
Logan’s breath hitches at that. The truth is, he’s been running—running from you, from the bond you share, from the possibility of something real.
“I’m not saying you should chase after her,” he continues. “But I am saying that you need to stop running from her. The universe doesn’t just throw things like this at us for no reason. And you know that.”
The weight of Scott’s words settle over Logan like a shroud. He knows the other man is right—deep down, he’s always known. But that doesn’t make it any easier. The fear, the guilt, the pain of losing Jean—it’s all still there, gnawing at him, holding him back.
There’s something else too, something he’s been trying to ignore but can’t any longer: the way he feels about you, the way he’s always felt, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. One of the first thought’s that ran through his head when his world re-erupted into colour was that, had this happened before Jean, maybe it could have worked. Maybe he could have been what you wanted, felt something real.
Scott takes a step back, giving Logan the space he needs. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “Think about what you really want. And don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”
Logan doesn’t respond, but Scott doesn’t need him to. He’s said what he needed to say, and now it’s up to him to decide what comes next. With a final look, Scott turns and leaves the gym, the door closing softly behind him.
The clawed mutant stands there for a long time, his fists still clenched, his mind racing. He knows he can’t keep doing this—can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he can’t change, something he’s too afraid to confront.
But change is terrifying, especially when it means facing the truth. The truth that maybe, just maybe, the bond he shares with you is something worth fighting for. Something that Jean wouldn’t want him to throw away.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Logan finally lets his fists unclench, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely knows where to start—but he knows one thing for sure: he's can’t run away anymore. Not from this, not from you.
—
You’ve now spent days in Florence, wandering through the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the works of the Renaissance masters, and evenings enjoying the quiet serenity of the Arno River. With you, Marco. You’ve grown to trust him. He’s never made you uncomfortable, never had any intentions to take advantage of you, and knows all the best restaurants.
But there’s always been a small, nagging doubt that you’ve pushed aside—a feeling that something isn’t quite right. You’ve ignored it, convincing yourself that you’re just being paranoid after everything you’ve been through. After all, he has been nothing but kind, always knowing the right thing to say, always showing up just when you need someone.
It isn’t until the two of you are exploring a quieter part of Florence, that the doubt flares into something more. You’re walking through an old, narrow alleyway, the kind that tourists rarely venture into, when Marco suggests you take a shortcut through a small, unmarked door in the side of a building.
“I found this place the last time I was here,” Marco says, his smile as easy as ever. “It’s a hidden gem, leads right to a beautiful courtyard. You’ll love it.”
You hesitate, something in his tone—or maybe it’s the way his eyes gleam just a little too brightly—sets off alarm bells in your mind. You’ve come to trust him though, haven’t you? You’ve traveled together for weeks, shared countless stories and laughs. Surely, he wouldn’t lead you into danger.
Still, as you step through the door, the darkened space beyond immediately feels wrong. The air is colder, damp, and the walls are lined with strange, unidentifiable equipment. You glance back at Marco, and that’s when you see it—the change in his expression. The warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.
Before you can react, you feel a sharp prick in your arm. Your vision blurs, and your body goes numb almost instantly. You stumble back, trying to push away, but your legs give out, and you collapse to the floor.
Marco looms over you, the smile gone from his face, replaced by a look of triumph. “Did you really think I didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a mutant, and you thought you could hide it from me?”
The world around you spins as the drug takes full effect, but you force your mind to stay focused. “What… why?” you manage to whisper, the betrayal cutting deep.
“Why?” He laughs, the sound harsh and devoid of any warmth. “Because mutants like you are worth a fortune. My clients pay top dollar for… research subjects. And you, my dear, are about to make me very, very rich.”
You try to move, to fight back, but your body refuses to respond. Panic rises in your chest as he kneels beside you, pulling out a small device that looks like a portable scanner. He runs it over you, and it emits a low hum as it registers your vital signs, confirming what he already knows. You’re weak.
“You won’t get away with this,” you say.
“Oh, but I already have,” he replies with cruel satisfaction. “No one knows where you are. And even if they did, it’ll be too late by the time they find you.”
With the last bit of strength you can muster, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you fumble with the X-Men communicator that Kitty gave you. His attention is momentarily distracted as he prepares a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and you seize the opportunity. You manage to pull out the communicator, your fingers barely able to grip it. Then, with a deep breath, you press the SOS button, the screen flashing to life.
You type in the message as quickly as you can, your vision blurring even more as the drug takes hold.
Location: Florence.
Message: Help.
Just as you hit send, Marco notices what you’re doing. His eyes widen in anger, and he grabs your wrist, yanking the communicator out of your hand. “You little—!” he snarls, but it’s too late. The message has already been sent.
His face contorts in rage as he slams the gadget against the ground, smashing it to pieces. He glares down at you, his hand tightening painfully around your wrist. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time.”
Your strength is nearly gone, the drug pulling you into unconsciousness, but you manage one last defiant look. “You won’t win,” you whisper with the last of your energy.
Marco releases your wrist with a sneer, standing up and looking down at you with contempt again. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters before turning away, leaving you on the cold, hard floor as darkness overtakes you.
You can only hope they—that Logan—will reach you in time.
—
The signal comes through during a meeting. A sudden, loud beep cuts through the room, and everyone freezes, their attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound. To Kitty’s pocket. It’s the X-Men communicator, the one linked to your device.
Logan’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the tone. He’s on his feet before anyone else can react, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice tense with urgency.
Kitty quickly pulls it out of her pocket, her eyes widening as she reads the message that’s flashed across the screen. Her face pales, and she looks up at the others, her voice trembling as she speaks. “It’s from her… Florence… Help.”
There’s a brief pause, maybe a second long in length, and then the room erupts into a flurry of movement.
Chairs scrape against the floor as the team rises to their feet, already preparing for action. But Logan is the first to react, his face a mask of fury and determination. “I’m going,” he growls, already heading for the door.
“Logan, wait!” Scott steps forward, blocking Logan’s path with a firm hand on his chest.
“Get out of my way, Summers,” He snarls, his voice filled with barely controlled rage. “I’m not waiting around while she’s in danger.”
“We can’t just rush in without a plan,” Scott insists, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”
Logan shoves the other mutant’s hand away, his eyes blazing with anger. “She sent an SOS, Scott! She needs help, and we’re wasting time standing here talking about it!”
The rest of the team watches the confrontation with anxious eyes, knowing that things could easily escalate. Logan’s been on edge for weeks, and the urgency of the situation—of you— has pushed him to the brink.
“Logan,” Ororo interjects, “We understand how you feel, but we need to think this through. If this is a trap—”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s a trap!” He snaps, his voice rising. “She’s part of our team! We can’t just leave her there!”
“That’s not what we’re saying,” Scott tries to reason, but Logan isn’t having it.
“Then what the hell are you sayin’?” He demands, his frustration boiling over. “Why are we wasting time when we should be getting her out of there?”
There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then it’s Rogue who steps forward, conflicted. “Logan… what if… what if she doesn’t want to see you?”
He freezes, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. He stares at Rogue, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls.
Rogue swallows, her eyes filled with worry. “She left because she needed time, Logan. Because things between you two… they weren’t good. Maybe she—maybe she doesn’t want you to be the one to save her.”
Clenching his hands into fists, his body is taut with tension. “Fuck that!” he roars with a fierce, protective rage. “She’s part of our team! She sent that message to us, to the X-Men, because she needs our help. I don’t care what’s happened between us, I’m not leavin’ her there!”
The room falls silent, the weight of Logan’s words settling over everyone. They know Logan is right—she’s part of the team, and they can’t leave her behind. But they also know that the situation is more complicated than that.
Scott takes a deep breath, his gaze steady as he looks at Logan. “We’re not saying we shouldn’t go after her, Logan. We’re saying that you need to be prepared for whatever we might find when we get there. She might be in a bad place, and she might not be ready to face you.”
“I don’t care,” he says after a brief pause, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I’m going to get her out of there. Whether she wants to see me or not, I’m not lettin’ her go through this alone.”
Scott studies Logan for a long moment, then finally nods. “Alright. But we do this together, as a team.”
Logan nods, his jaw set in a grim line. “Fine. Let’s go.”
—
Your eyes snap open, the dim light of the room piercing your vision. You’re in a large, abandoned warehouse. Your head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton, and there’s a dull, throbbing pain at the base of your skull. As you try to move, you realize with a jolt of fear that you’re restrained, your arms and legs strapped tightly to a chair. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the bonds, but they don’t budge.
And then you see him—Marco, standing a few feet away, watching you with a smirk that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, and you realize with horror that you’ve been caught, trapped in whatever twisted game he’s been playing.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “I was starting to wonder if I’d given you too much of the sedative. But it seems you’re tougher than I thought.”
You try to respond, but a gag in your mouth muffles your words, turning them into incoherent sounds. You glare at him your eyes burning with fury.
He only chuckles, clearly amused by your resistance. “Oh, don’t bother trying to speak. We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now would we? Though, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to send that little SOS before I caught on. Clever, but ultimately futile.”
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, his expression turning cold. “You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of mutants in my time, but there’s something special about you. Something… unique.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Too bad your powers won’t do you any good here. The drug I gave you should keep you nice and powerless for the foreseeable future.”
Straining against the bonds, you continue to try to break free, but he drug in your system dulls your abilities, leaving you feeling weak and vulnerable. All you can do is stare at him with hatred as he continues to taunt you.
“Such fire in your eyes,” Marco murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the light of day again. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your abilities are put to good use.”
He lets go of your chin, his hand trailing down to your shoulder in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you a little more… compliant.”
Just as he reaches into his coat pocket, presumably for another syringe, a sudden, loud crash echoes through the warehouse. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of energy blasts and the heavy thud of boots on the concrete floor.
The X-Men have arrived.
Marco’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in anger. He spins around, barking orders at the security guards scattered throughout the warehouse. “Stop them! Don’t let them get near her!”
The guards rush forward, weapons drawn, but they’re no match for your friends. The familiar sounds of battle flood your ears—Rogue’s powerful punches, Scott’s optic blasts, and Storm’s lightning crackling through the air. You struggle against your restraints again, desperate to free yourself, but it’s no use.
Then, you catch a glimpse of Logan. He’s fighting his way toward you, his claws out, slicing through anyone who gets in his way. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your eyes meet his, and you can see the raw determination in his gaze. He’s coming for you.
But just as he takes a step forward, something changes. He hesitates. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but you can see the conflict on his face—the way he seems to second-guess himself, the way his steps falter. Your heart sinks as you realize he’s unsure, almost as if he's torn between wanting to save you and fearing that you don’t want him to.
In that split second of hesitation, Rogue swoops in, landing beside you with a determined look on her face. She doesn’t waste any time, using her strength to tear through the restraints that bind you. “We’ve got you, sugah,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring as she pulls the gag from your mouth. “You’re safe now.”
You nod, your throat too dry and your body too weak to speak. Your muscles scream in protest as you try to stand, but she quickly wraps an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You’re shaky, your body still reeling from the effects of the drug, but you’re free. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan still standing there, his eyes locked on you, his expression unreadable. He wanted to save you. He wanted to be the one to pull you out of that nightmare, but something held him back.
Rogue helps you toward the exit as the rest of the team continues to subdue the guards and Marco. You lean heavily on her, your legs barely able to support your weight, but you force yourself to keep moving.
And when everyone else has back in the jet, hugging you and comforting you, you look over to Logan, who sits far away, on the opposite side, refusing to meet your gaze.
—
Returning to the mansion feels like stepping back into a familiar, comforting embrace. You missed the soft, warm bed in your room, the quiet serenity of the gardens, and the comforting presence of your friends. It's been a few days since the whole ordeal in Florence, and the drug has finally worked its way out of your system. Your strength has returned, and physically, you feel like yourself again. The mansion, too, seems unchanged—still the safe haven you’ve always known.
But as the days pass, you begin to notice that while many things have returned to normal, some things have not. You’ve seen most of your friends, their faces lighting up when they see you, their hugs tight and full of relief. There have been quiet conversations and laughter, shared meals in the kitchen, and moments that remind you why this place is home.
Except, there’s one person you haven’t seen. Logan.
His absence is like a shadow that follows you wherever you go. You’ve felt his presence in the mansion—heard his voice in the halls, the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards—but he’s kept his distance. He hasn’t sought you out, hasn’t tried to talk to you, and that stings more than you want to admit.
You’ve tried to stay strong, to remind yourself of the resilience you found during your time away. You’ve reminded yourself over and over that you don’t need anyone else to validate your worth, that you can stand on your own. Yet the longer Logan avoids you, the harder it is to hold on to that strength. The old wounds, the ones you thought had begun to heal, start to ache again, and you can’t help but wonder if anything has really changed at all.
More often than not, you find yourself retreating to the front lawn. The sun is warm on your skin as you lie down in the grass, a book in hand. The soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of life inside the mansion create a peaceful background, and for a moment, you manage to lose yourself in the pages of your book.
Still, even here, in the sanctuary of the garden, the thoughts you’ve been trying to push aside keep creeping back in. The memory of Florence, of Logan’s hesitation, lingers like a bitter aftertaste. You replay the moment over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why he stopped, why he didn’t come for you.
You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until a deep, familiar voice breaks the silence.
“I’m glad you’re alright.”
The voice startles you, and you jerk slightly, looking up to see Logan standing above you. His expression is guarded, as if he’s not sure how you’ll react to his presence. There’s a tautness to his posture, a stiffness that you recognize all too well.
For a moment, you just stare at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of his appearance. He’s as rugged and intimidating as ever, but there’s something different in his eyes—something a tad bit softer. You close your book, sitting up slowly as you meet his gaze. The question that’s been gnawing at you since Florence rises to the surface, and you know you can’t keep it inside any longer.
“What happened?” you ask, your voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “In Florence?”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, his gaze shifting to the trees in the distance. He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, thick with unspoken words.
You just watch him, waiting for an explanation, but there’s a part of you that’s already bracing for disappointment. You’ve been here before, waiting for Logan to decide what happens next, to take the lead. And you’re tired of it. You’re tired of being the one left in the dark, of being the one who has to wait for him to be ready.
Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “I… I hesitated,” he admits huskily, almost in a growl. “I wanted to save you. Hell, I was going to. But then… I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
His confession hangs in the air, and you feel a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and sadness. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realized that his hesitation was rooted in something so painfully human.
“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” you ask softly, searching his face for answers.
Logan finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. “Because of everything that’s happened between us. Because I pushed you away. I hurt you, and I thought… maybe you’d be better off if it wasn’t me.”
You shake your head, trying to make sense of his reasoning. “Logan, this can’t keep being about what you think is best,” you begin. “And it’s not about who saves who. It’s about being there when it counts. You were there. You came for me.”
He doesn’t have a response to that, at least not right away. He looks down at the ground, his fists unclenching, his shoulders slumping even further. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of everything he’s done, everything he’s failed to do, and it’s crushing him.
“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to get out. “For everything.”
You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.
“I know I’ve messed up,” he continues. “I know I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try to make things right.”
You know you should be happy—this is everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for so long. But it’s also too much, too late. The doubt, the pain, it can’t just disappear with a snap of your fingers.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” you admit.
There’s pain on his face. “I get it,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, if it means I can earn your trust back.”
“I need time. I need time to figure out where I stand, and where you stand with me.”
He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground again. “Take all the time you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I appreciate that,” With a small nod, you stand up, brushing the grass off your clothes. “I need time,” you repeat, more for your own benefit than his.
“And you’ve got it,” Logan replies. “As much as you need.”
—
Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. You focus on yourself, on healing the wounds that were reopened during your conversation with Logan. It feels strange, being the one who needs space, but you know it’s necessary. You find things to take your mind off him: you train more, read more, spend more time with Rogue, Kitty, or Remy. It’s nice.
But Logan… Logan doesn’t give up. He knows you need time, and he respects that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure you to make a decision, but he makes it clear through his actions that he hasn’t forgotten about you, and more importantly, that he isn’t going anywhere.
It starts with the small things—things so subtle that you almost don’t notice at first. You probably wouldn’t have suspected anything if you hadn’t known the kind of person he is. He’s nothing if not persistent. He knows you better than you realize—the rift he created after Jean’s death muddling with your memory—and he uses that knowledge to quietly, almost imperceptibly, work his way back into your life.
In the mornings, you wake up to find your favorite snacks waiting for you in the kitchen, carefully placed where you’d be sure to see them. He never mentions it, never takes credit, but you know it’s him. It’s in the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you take a bite, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never makes a big deal out of it—just a quiet, unspoken gesture that says, I’m thinking of you.
Then there are the late-night training sessions. You go down to the Danger Room or the gym, hoping to clear your mind with a bit of solitary exercise, only to find Logan already there. At first, you’re tempted to leave, to find somewhere else to work out, but something in his demeanor stops you. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t speak unless you initiate it. Instead, he just… exists beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, like a rock in the storm.
It’s in these moments that you begin to see a different side of Logan—one that’s patient, understanding, and perhaps a little unsure of himself. He follows your lead, mirroring your exercises or silently spotting you during weightlifting, always attentive to your needs without ever making you feel pressured or overwhelmed. He’s just there, offering his support in the quietest, most understated way possible.
And then there are the little surprises in your room—small, thoughtful gestures that you can’t help but notice. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing suddenly appears on your nightstand, its pages pristine and waiting for you to dive into. The time-worn leather straps on your gear are suddenly replaced with new ones that fit perfectly, the stitching unmistakably done by Logan’s hand. Even your plants, the ones you’d worried would wither away while you were on a mission, seem to thrive in your absence, the soil freshly watered and the leaves turned toward the sun.
He never asks for thanks, never draws attention to what he’s doing. It’s all done quietly, behind the scenes, as if he’s afraid that if you notice too much, you might push him away. But you do notice. How could you not?
At first, you try to ignore it, telling yourself that these gestures don’t change anything, that they’re just a way for Logan to assuage his guilt. You tell yourself that he’s just doing this because he feels bad, because he wants to make up for the past, not because he actually cares. You’ve built walls around your heart for a reason, and you’re not ready to let them down just because he’s being nice.
But over time, those small gestures begin to chip away at those walls, brick by brick. You start to realize that Logan isn’t just going through the motions—he’s really paying attention, noticing the little things that make you who you are. It isn’t just about the snacks or the books or the plants—it’s about the way he remembers the details of your life, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel seen and understood.
After a particularly long and stressful day, you return to your room exhausted, and all you want is to collapse into bed and forget the world for a while. But when you walk in, you find a small bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your nightstand, the beautiful colors a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that have been swirling in your mind all day. There’s no note, no explanation—there never is—but you know who left them.
You just stand there, staring at the flowers, your heart squeezing in your chest. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it means so much. You’d forgotten that Logan knew how much you love wildflowers—you’d mentioned it once, years ago. The way they’re resilient, thriving even in the harshest conditions, blooming where others wouldn’t. It’s as if he’s telling you that he sees that strength in you, that he admires it.
And it’s then, in the quiet of your room, surrounded by the small, thoughtful gestures that Logan has left behind, that you realize something. This isn’t just about making up for the past. Logan is showing you, in the only way he knows how, that he wants this. Wants you.
He's finally picked up the pieces of him that fell apart after Jean’s death, and he is willing to pick up the pieces of you that fell apart after his rejection.
So, one evening, months after that fateful conversation on the lawn, you find yourself standing in the common room, staring at the fireplace, lost in thought. The mansion is quiet, the rest of the team either out on a mission or asleep. It’s just you and the flickering flames, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.
But when you hear footsteps behind you, heavy and deliberate, you know instantly who it is. Without turning, you can sense his presence, the way he moves with that quiet confidence, the way the air seems to shift when he is near. Logan has always had a way of grounding you, even when you don’t want him to.
He walks up beside you, stopping just short of touching you, his warmth radiating in the small space between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask why you’re here or try to force a conversation. He just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, waiting patiently, giving you the time you need. It’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him in recent months—his newfound ability to just be, without pushing or demanding more than you’re ready to give.
"I’ve been thinking," you say finally, your voice soft, as you continue to gaze into the flames.
"Yeah?" Logan asks, his tone careful, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.
You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’ve been… different. Doing all these little things… I see them, you know."
Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, you see hope there. "I just wanted you to know that I care. That I’m sorry," he says, with so much emotion. “You were never a burden to me.”
You swallow hard. "It’s hard for me, Logan," you admit, "I’ve been hurt before, and I’m scared. Scared that if I let myself love you again, you’ll just… break me."
He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I’d never hurt you again," he says, "I’d rather cut off my own damn hand than hurt you. The past is the past, and you are my future."
That’s enough to make your walls crumble completely. You know, deep down, that Logan is telling the truth. That he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.
And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him.
You don’t say anything. Instead, you let your actions speak for you. You close the distance between you, standing on your toes as you press your lips to his in a gentle, tentative kiss. Logan freezes for a split second, as if he can’t believe this is really happening, but then he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, holding you as if he never wants to let go.
The kiss is slow, tender, full of everything that has been building between you for so long. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a promise, a commitment to try again, to rebuild what has been broken. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling with his, you rest your head on his shoulder. "I’m still scared," you whisper.
"I know," Logan replies, his arms tightening around you. "But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow, darlin’. Whatever you need."
You nod. "Okay."
Logan smiles then, a real, genuine smile that makes your heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s a smile full of relief, of gratitude, of love—a smile that tells you that he understands just how much this moment means, just how much you’re giving him by letting him back into your heart.
—
The time that follows is a slow, steady journey of rebuilding trust. Logan is true to his word—he is patient, understanding, and surprisingly tender in ways you hadn’t expected. The small gestures continue—coffee waiting for you in the morning, a gentle hand on your back during missions, quiet moments of companionship where no words are needed.
You can feel the doubts you’ve been holding onto slowly begin to fade. Each time Logan shows up for you, each time he puts your needs above his own, it chips away at the fear that has kept you guarded for so long. It’s in the way he listens when you talk, truly listens, as if every word you say matters. It’s in the way he looks at you—not with the same fury he once had, but with a steady, enduring affection that speaks of something deeper.
With Jean, he loved her because she was his soulmate, she was who the universe destined him to be with. He loved her because that’s what he thought he had to do.
With you, he has a choice. He doesn’t need to acknowledge the bond, but he chooses to. He chooses to everyday and he’ll never stop. He loves you because he wants to, not because he has to.
One evening, you find yourself sitting on the mansion’s porch watching the sunset. Logan joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush.
“You’ve been quiet today,” he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.
“I’ve just been thinking,” you reply, leaning your head on his shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about how far you’ve come in trusting him again.
“’Bout what?” he asks, his voice gentle.
“About us,” you say, your voice steady. “About how things have changed. How… how good they’ve been.”
Logan’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels so natural, so right. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I’m not scared anymore, Logan. Not like I was.”
He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. “You sure?”
You nod, smiling softly. “I’m sure. You’ve shown me that this bond means something to you, that you’re not going to hurt me. And… I want this. I want us.”
Logan’s face lights up with so much love, that it takes your breath away. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, darlin’. Because I want us too. More than anything.”
—
It isn’t long before the rest of the X-Men begin to notice the change in Logan as well. At first, it’s subtle—small things like the way he looks at you during briefings, or the way he seems to be more patient, more relaxed when you’re around. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.
During a training session in the Danger Room, you’re paired with Logan for a simulated mission. The others watch as Logan moves with you in perfect sync, his focus not just on the mission but on you—making sure you’re safe, supporting you when needed, and trusting you completely. It’s a far cry from the Logan they had seen when he was in mourning, where his moves were rash and careless.
After the session, as you and Logan leave the Danger Room, you catch sight of Ororo and Scott exchanging a look, the kind of look that speaks volumes, full of surprise and a touch of amusement.
“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you approach them.
Ororo smiles warmly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nothing, just… noticing how good you two are together.”
Scott nods in agreement, his expression softening as he glances at Logan. “Yeah, it’s… different, finally seeing him like this. In a good way.”
Logan shrugs, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’re you guys talking about?”
“Just that it’s nice to see you happy, Logan,” Ororo says gently. “Really happy.”
Logan looks at you then, his smile growing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah. It is.”
More members of the team begin to notice the change in Logan as time goes on. Rogue, who has always had a soft spot for him, comments on how he seems more at ease, less burdened by the weight of his past. Hank, ever the observer, points out how Logan’s demeanor has shifted—less brooding, more open. Even Charles, who has seen Logan through his darkest times, pulls you aside one day to express his approval.
“I must say,” Charles says, his tone warm and approving, “I haven’t seen Logan like this in a very long time. Whatever you two have managed to sort out, it’s working.”
And it is. Slowly but surely, the wounds that had once held you back have healed. The doubts that had kept you from fully embracing your relationship with Logan have faded, replaced by a deep, abiding love. It isn’t just the little gestures anymore—it’s the way Logan makes you feel seen, heard, and cherished in a way that no one else ever has.
—
“I never thought we’d get here,” you admit one night whilst looking up at the stars.
Logan looks at you, his expression tender. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “But I’m damn glad we did.”
You smile, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I love you, Logan. And I trust you. Completely.”
His grip tightens slightly, as if to hold onto the moment, to hold onto you. “I love you too, darlin’. I never thought I’d feel this way about someone.”
You know what he’s trying to say. So without thinking, you reach up and cup his face, drawing him closer until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Show me,” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He closes the small gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft at first, almost tentative, as if he’s savoring the feel of you.
You can feel the heat between you building, the kiss growing more fervent as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, then into his hair. Brown.
His hands slide up your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head, deepening the kiss further until you’re both breathless.
When you finally pull back, your foreheads resting against each other’s, you’re both panting, your hearts racing in sync. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you close.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I never thought I’d get my happy ending, but here you are… and I’m never lettin’ you go.”
You smile, feeling the last remnants of pain melt away, replaced by a certainty that this is where you’re meant to be. “And I’m never leaving,” you whisper back, sealing your words with another kiss that quickly reignites the fire between you.
This kiss is hungrier, more urgent, as if you both need to make up for lost time. Logan’s hands roam your body with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, his touch igniting a fire in your core.
That night, you lose yourself in him, in the way he tastes, in the way he makes love to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because this time, you’re not just in love—you’re in love with a man who loves you back, fully and completely.
And that makes all the difference.
----
a/n: i love you if you made it this far. please check out my new series The Feeling's Mutual
4K notes
·
View notes
Pity Party
Rafe Cameron x Reader
Warnings: NON-CON/DUB-CON (+ mentions of), toxic/abusive relationship, mentions of manipulation, dad!Rafe, established Rafe x reader
➥ While this can absolutely be read as a stand alone piece, it is also the much requested follow up to my WTPO series. I hope this doesn't disappoint!
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics
summary: You became the envy of every woman in Kildare County the day you became Mrs. Rafe Cameron.
⭑
You slid along the floor using your knees, hand occupied by an even tinier one as your son unsteadily put one foot in front of the other. Your lips were pulled into a smile as you watched him, your free hand hovering behind his back for when he very likely would fall. Your other son was occupied with a snack, and when—as expected—the youngest one’s legs gave out, you scooped him up with a giggle.
“Look at you,” you cooed. “You’re going to be sprinting by this weekend.”
His cherubic face smiled back at you, lips wet with drool, and you wiped his mouth with a smile. Your oldest—now done with his Goldfish—was currently tugging on your dress, and when you looked down at him, he had a wide grin on his face.
“I wanna play with him…”
His soft voice had your own expression softening, and you quietly told him ‘okay’, taking a seat right on the floor where you were formerly standing. You emptied your hands, letting your son crawl around and slap at the ground as his brother followed him, face so close to his as he whispered things to him that he didn’t quite understand yet. You let your mind wander, warmth blooming in your chest as you thought about how…sweet they were.
There had been a time where you feared they wouldn’t be.
…and as you stared at them, you almost felt bad for ever thinking they could be anything less than angels, but it couldn’t be helped. They were children, and there were very few things in this world that were more innocent than children. They both came out squirming and pudgy and perfect—screaming their heads off and only calming once they were in your arms. They came into this world looking at you with the kind of eyes that had never experienced or done a single bad thing in their life.
They were children…babies…
…but they were Rafe’s babies.
And as much as you would like to, you would never be able to forget how they both came to be here. Fighting off Rafe Cameron was hard enough when you were going through a tumultuous breakup, but it became damn near impossible once he managed to get a ring on your finger and a prison around you in the form of a fancy house. You looked down at the large rock, a pang going through your chest at the sight of a simple gold band below it.
The wedding had been the grand fanfare it was expected to be, serving it’s purpose of making you the envy of every woman in Kildare County. Your oldest son—having been an only child at the time—was pulled down the aisle in a wagon with a pillow in his lap that contained the rings. Rose had gushed over you in the dressing room, long having convinced herself no woman would ever marry Rafe and she’d never get to experience this. Your father had cried as he handed you off to your husband to be, and tears had kissed your own eyes but just for an entirely different reason.
Your dress was made for a princess, and your veil was made for an angel, and your makeup was made for a doll. Everything was perfect, everything going off without a hitch. Absolutely nothing—not a single thing—had gone wrong, and even though by that point you’d slowly started to accept your fate…something in you had hoped. For what? You weren’t entirely sure.
You’d hoped that some crazy ex girlfriend of Rafe’s would stand up and object. You’d hoped that your brother would go against your wishes and drag you away from it all. Hell, you’d even hoped that someone would choke on their spit and require an ambulance. Deep down though, you’d known what you really hoped for.
You had hoped that Rafe would do the right thing…and let you go.
It was a silly hope. Rafe Cameron had gone through entirely too much trouble to ensure you’d never leave him, even going as far as threatening to take your son away from you. He—both of them—was the only good thing to come out of this. From the first moment you laid eyes on him, you’d wanted him all for yourself and far away from Rafe. The brunette simply didn’t deserve him, and you had no doubt that Rafe would agree, but his selfishness outweighed any thought of doing what was right. That had always been the case.
You didn’t know why you thought your wedding day might be any different.
Rafe moments away from chaining you to him forever? There was no shot in hell of him walking away from that, and you sighed at how naively hopeful you’d been that day. The sound of your oldest son’s laughter pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked over just in time to see him jump to his feet, promptly sprinting towards the foyer. You weren’t worried, knowing exactly who it was that could elicit such a reaction from him.
You swallowed at the sound of Rafe’s voice, taking your 11-month old into your arms.
“...and how were my boys?”
He came into view as he said that, the messy haired little boy upside down in his arms as he kicked his feet and laughed.
You knew the question wasn’t meant for you.
“I was bad,” your son told him, and you fought back a smile, knowing why he said that.
Rafe’s gaze met yours, and the smile that threatened to ghost over your lips was gone. He merely smirked at the sight, rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to the boy in his arms.
“Bad? Oh no,” he chuckled. “Why were you bad?”
“I accidentally spilled juice on mommy’s dress.”
Your son’s words came out small, slurring together a bit with his slight lisp. You’d told him that it was fine—accidents happen—but you knew why he was so hung up on it. As awful as Rafe treated you behind closed doors, he treated you a million times better for the whole world to see. He was smart that way, and the whole world included your children. They saw their dad treat mommy like a princess—none the wiser to what the true nature of your relationship was really like—and so they followed suit.
An offense against you—no matter how small—was especially heinous.
“Oh that is bad,” Rafe murmured, setting him down on his feet. “Guess we’ll have to buy her a new one, huh?”
He ruffled his hair, and your son beamed at the thought of going shopping.
You avoided Rafe’s gaze as he neared you, an impressive feat when he came to kneel down before you. Your youngest was squirming in your arms—babbling—and you swallowed when Rafe reached out to lightly squish his cheeks. He pressed his lips to his tiny forehead just as his hand landed on your own cheek, and only then did you look at him.
Rafe stared at you for what felt like a long time, expression unreadable. Your oldest was going on about something behind him that neither of you were giving too much attention to. His blue eyes looked between yours, studying you, and you could smell his cologne. After what felt like too long, his pink lips finally curved into that haughty half smile you were used to seeing.
It never not made you want to smack it right off of his face.
“...and how was mommy today?” he quietly asked.
There were a thousand things you wanted to say to him.
You wanted to say that mommy cried in the bathroom because she still had thoughts of leaving sometimes even at the loss of her own children, but then she’d remember how much she loved them and couldn’t live without them and the guilt would set in. You wanted to tell him that mommy’s thigh still hurt from where he’d sank his teeth into it the night before for daring to tell him she still hated him sometimes. You even started to tell him that mommy had rare moments here and there where she’d momentarily forget their history and find herself content in this big house with her children and fancy ring until she remembered how her children got here and what said house and ring represented.
You didn’t say any of that though.
Instead, you merely blinked at Rafe, and told him what you always did.
“Mommy was fine.”
The vase narrowly missed Rafe’s head, his quick reflexes making your heart sink with disappointment. Your own quick thinking had you frantically looking around for something else to throw at him, but his feet moved faster than your brain, and he was nearing you before you made up your mind. Unable to stomach being around him, right now, you hurriedly sprinted to the other side of the room. You paid no mind to the way he called your name, a blend of anger and exasperation there.
“Are you done…?”
You didn’t look at him, keeping your angry gaze on the floor. Besides, you didn’t have to in order to know what he looked like. You could imagine it perfectly—steely blue eyes cold and intently focused on you, hands on his hips and jaw clenched so hard you’d swear it was about to break. When you finally did glance at him, you were proven right.
“This little…” he waved his hand about. “...tantrum. You’re finished?”
“Fuck you,” you whispered.
You couldn’t hold in your tears, and they spilled over without your permission. Rafe sucked his teeth at the sight, and when he took a step towards you, you made to leave the living room completely. Your sons were with your mom—they would be the whole weekend—because that was the plan. They would stay with grandma for a few days while you went to Charlotte to visit Pope at school. Rafe was supposed to be handling business with Ward, anyway.
He was not supposed to be sabotaging your plans and canceling car rentals and flights and ruining your entire weekend.
Rafe stopped you before you could get far, and you didn’t even attempt to get away, too defeated and upset to smack him square across the face like you wanted. His fingers dug into your skin, and you wondered if a light bruise would be there in the morning. You could tell by the way he held you that he was upset, but you didn’t understand what he had to be upset about. It had been four years since Rafe started this fucked up dynamic he called a family and over two since you’d reluctantly said ‘I do’. You even gave him another son…and yet…
It was clear now that he still didn’t trust you.
Sure, you had the stray thought or two here and there about escaping, but when it was all said and done, those were just thoughts. Your children meant too much to you to just take off, and even if you ever got to that point one day where you’d happily sacrifice their chance to grow up with a mother just to have your own freedom, Rafe would never let that happen. Your fate was sealed from the very moment he’d decided you were it for him.
“I haven’t seen my brother in months. It’s his last year of school, and I didn’t want the next time I see him to be at his Goddamn graduation,” you spat, lips trembling. “You said you were okay with it!”
“Yeah, I was,” Rafe replied in a tone that hinted at more to come.
You were right.
“...but then I remembered that this would be the first time we’d be apart for a distance more than thirty miles and how way up there in Charlotte you could disappear to wherever you wanted and-.”
“You wouldn’t have to worry about any of that if we had a normal relationship,” you cut him off, a sneer on your lips. “You wouldn’t have to worry about the possibility of me running away from you if you’d never hurt me and raped me and damn near threatened me into marrying you.”
At those words, Rafe let you go as if you burned him, and you reminded yourself how much Rafe hated to be reminded of why you were really here. You were positive he sometimes convinced himself that this relationship was as real as it could be—the perfect parents with the perfect children and the perfect marriage. After all, it was what everyone on the outside saw when they were looking in.
The difference between the two of you it seemed was that you knew it was all pretend.
Rafe liked to believe that it wasn’t.
“All of that aside…do you really think I’d leave them?”
Your question came out whispered, and you didn’t miss the slight twitch in Rafe’s face. Leave them…not leave him. Rafe was smart in knowing that knocking you up would be the only thing to truly prevent you from leaving, and yet he absolutely hated to be reminded of it. To be reminded that it was not—and never would be—him keeping you here.
His expression morphed, a shadow passing over his features as he glanced away, shoving a hand into his pocket.
“I can’t take that chance,” was all he said, making more tears spill over. “Pope’s not going anywhere. You can always see him another time.”
You pulled your lip between your teeth in anger, and when he reached for you, he was stopped by a harsh slap to the cheek. Your lips wouldn’t stop trembling, and you just stared at him as he rubbed his face.
“You have taken so much from me, Rafe,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes at him. “If your goal is to make sure we’re both absolutely miserable…then keep it up.”
You turned away from him, refusing to spare him another look as you made your way upstairs to unpack your suitcase.
Most days in your marriage were okay. They weren’t awful, and they weren't’ exactly anything you’d jump at the chance to relive. They were simply just…okay. On those days, Rafe would wake you up with a kiss, sometimes more than that, and you’d start your day—usually something that consisted of preparing for your children to wake up. They made those days stand a chance at being somewhat enjoyable, and you thought to yourself that maybe one day when they were old enough, you’d tell them how much they did for you without even knowing.
On the days where your marriage wasn’t okay, you were usually overcome with how you really felt about Rafe. Those days didn’t come as often as they used to—a fact you didn’t like to let your mind linger on—but when they did, they usually ended in your tears.
…and Rafe pinning you down and just taking what he wanted.
Rafe had felt entitled to your body long before he put the ring on your finger, but after you took his last name, his entitlement went to an entirely new level. You recalled a day where you had the house to yourselves and how silly you’d been to think Rafe would respect your wish to be alone.
“Do you know what this means?” he’d harshly asked, squeezing your left hand as he held it up for both of you to see.
The 4-carat marquise solitaire glinted under the bright kitchen light.
“It means you’re my wife, it means you’re mine,” he’d hissed, getting in real close and touching your nose with his. “Do you get how patient I’ve been? How patient I am?”
You’d shrank away from him, wincing at the slight pain in your left hand.
“I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but it’s been years,” he’d told you. “There’s a ring on your finger and two little boys walking around with my face. You need to suck it up!”
The counter had been harsh against your stomach as he bent you over it.
The good days in your marriage were even more rare, and even those ended in you feeling sad for yourself. It was usually a whole day of your boys keeping a smile on your face, the feeling so infectious that even Rafe couldn’t make it go away. And that’s how you’d find yourself smiling at him and playing with your children together and actually acting like a family. Only…on those rare days…it wasn’t acting. For just several hours, everything that Rafe was and everything he’d done would be so far from your mind.
You’d find yourself bathing your youngest together—your oldest only listening to you when it was time to wash behind his ears—cooing over the baby that was just shy of turning one years old. You’d let your son run into your arms as he hid from the ‘tickle monster’, playfully pushing at Rafe’s chest as you protected the three year old from him. Sometimes you’d even fall asleep with your head so close to Rafe’s lap as he read to them, your son begging you both to stay until he fell asleep.
Of all the days in your marriage that you’d anticipated being the hardest, the ‘good’ days were not among them. Reality would set in during the morning, sometimes even that same night, and your chest would ache as you held back tears because what you and Rafe had was not real. It wasn’t a real marriage, and you weren’t a real family, and on those days where you forgot that, the truth just hit so much harder. All of the anger and disappointment would come back…and then the fear would set in.
It scared you how easily you could slip into that headspace and live in some alternate reality where Rafe was a good husband and your children hadn’t been the product of rape and you didn’t have errant thoughts of what it would be like to be free of him. It scared you how good it felt to forget it all, how a day might come where instead of finding yourself slipping into that mindset, you just…chose it.
It would be so easy.
…but you felt like you owed it to yourself to hate him forever.
Sometimes he made hating him so easy…and then other times so, so hard.
“They’re so sweet to you,” he murmured in the low lighting, both of your kids fast asleep in their room.
You’d been trying to find sleep of your own, but Rafe’s phone call with Ward left you both up long after you wanted to be. You were unfortunately wide awake when slid in beside you, and your unopened eyes didn’t fool Rafe in the slightest. He knew you were awake.
“I would hope so,” you murmured, staring at the back of your eyelids as he lightly traced patterns into your satin covered stomach.
Your husband chuckled to himself.
“I mean they look at you like you hung the moon,” he quietly continued. “Especially your shadow…”
He was referring to your oldest.
“I’m barely there for him whenever you’re in the same room,” he whispered. “He’s happy that I’m home and he hugs me, but then it’s straight back to mommy.”
You slowly opened your eyes as Rafe’s hand became flat against your stomach, gently rubbing it.
“He treats you like a princess…”
You met his gaze at that, and you couldn’t quite place the look in Rafe’s eyes.
“...and I’m especially happy about it on days when I don’t.”
You sighed at that, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m glad that he’s nothing like me…”
You remembered Rafe saying something similar years ago before the boy in question had even been born, and you blinked as he leaned in, gently ghosting his lips over your cheek. You were tempted to push him away, but then you asked yourself if you wanted to start a fight so late in the night. Instead, you turned your head to face Rafe, your lips a hair’s width away from his own.
“I’m glad he’s nothing like you too,” you whispered.
You didn’t miss the way his face fell at that, a tick in his jaw that told you your words had the desired effect. Instead of saying something along the lines of what you both knew he wanted to say, Rafe merely heaved a sigh, still gently rubbing your stomach. He suddenly pushed himself up onto his elbow, looking down at you.
A smirk ghosted over his lips.
“I want another baby.”
Those words were the last thing you’d been expecting, and your eyes widened just a tad.
“...what?”
“Let’s try for a girl this time,” he suggested, and realizing that he was indeed serious, you sat up.
His hand fell away from your stomach.
“This time?” you murmured, more to yourself than him. “I don’t recall trying for anything the previous times.”
The mention of what he did to you had Rafe going silent, and when you looked at him, his nostrils were flaring.
“It can be different this time-.”
“How?” you wondered, frowning at him. “How will it be different this time? The only time I touch you is when I’m forced to, and I don’t know, that sounds pretty fucking familiar to me.”
Rafe’s hand had circled around your chin before you had time to react—he was sitting up now too—and you both just cooly stared at each other. He looked like he wanted to hurt you, and you stared back, just waiting for him to prove you right. He seemed to be toying with the thought, and after a few moments, he slowly exhaled through his nose.
His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his blue eyes following the action.
A million thoughts were racing through his mind, that much you could tell by the emotions that flickered over his features. Eventually he settled on one, pulling his lip between his teeth.
“You’re not always unhappy…”
It was said like a statement, but there was a lilt there that told you he wanted an answer.
“No,” you eventually responded, honestly. “Not always.”
He nodded.
“...but I’m unhappy more than I’m happy.”
He closed his eyes at that, and you swallowed.
“What did you expect, Rafe? Sure, four years is a lot, but it’s also not when I think about everything you did to me.”
He dropped his hand and pushed himself to his feet. You watched him stand there, staring at the wall with his hands on his hips.
“...and what makes it worse is that you’re not even sorry. I know how much you want me to ‘just get over it’, but how am I expected to get over it when we both know you’d do it all over again so long as it got you the same result?” you choked out. “You’re not sorry for any of it.”
You blinked away tears.
“...and now you’re mad at me so much because I won’t roll over and play house.”
You saw his shoulders heave, and you could tell how much this conversation was frustrating him. Rafe really hated to be reminded of his own actions, hated to be reminded of the fact that your relationship was where it was because of him. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You were the one trapped in this gilded cage…not him.
“So, if you want another baby…” you quietly started. “...either something needs to change…or you just embrace the beast we both know you can be.”
His eyes snapped to yours at that, and as much as it made your heart skip a beat, Rafe rarely scared you anymore. You’d seen him and experienced him at his absolute worst. There really wasn’t much he could do to you anymore that would shock you…and he knew it.
His baby blues glinted dangerously, and you bit your tongue.
He did the opposite of what you expected, and you watched him turn away from you to leave the room. You didn’t relax, knowing he’d come back, but you did heave a tired sigh, telling yourself that sleep couldn’t come fast enough.
Rafe’s hand tightened around your throat as he kissed you, the alcohol on your tongue making the kiss taste sweet. The world was moving so slow around you, and every place that Rafe touched felt like you were being gently electrocuted. Deep in the crevices of your mind, you knew that something was wrong. You hadn’t kissed Rafe like this in years, not since the early days of your relationship when you thought you might have loved him, and butterflies were in your stomach at one look from him.
You recalled the sight of your empty wine glass on the carpet, the rest of the red wine you didn’t drink staining the white fabric.
Your kids were asleep and the house was quiet and you were kissing your husband like you used to—back when he wasn’t your husband. Rafe had your back to the wall just barely on the inside of your bedroom, your hand struggling to reach out to the door. Rafe grabbed it, threading his fingers through your own, and you made a slight noise of protest.
He made a shushing noise into the kiss.
“Just relax…”
Relax.
That word triggered something in you, and you pressed your other hand to his chest. You were far too relaxed to be sober, and considering you only had one glass of wine, you knew that other substances were at play here. You recalled Rafe voicing his desire for another baby just the other day…and you recalled the slight back and forth it’d created. You expected one of two things out of Rafe, but neither of them included a scenario where you were too inebriated to properly fight back against him.
There was something especially sinister about Rafe creating this false sense of consent.
His lips traveled down towards your neck as he bent his head, and you felt like you didn’t have control over your body as you threw your head back. You shakily exhaled when both of his hands descended towards your waist, lifting you and forcing you towards the California king. When he settled you both onto it, all pretense was gone.
“Don’t you want a little girl?” he whispered against your skin, his fingers dancing along the place from where your shirt had ridden up. “Hmm? I know you get sick of being with just us boys.”
You made a noise that was unintelligible even to your ears, pushing at his head, but it was of no use. Whatever he slipped into your drink clearly wasn’t in his, Rafe having all of his strength and wits about him as he pinned you down. He kissed you again—slow—as his hands circled around your wrists. It took your breath away, and your lashes fluttered when he descended.
“A princess for my princess…”
You reached out to place a hand on the bed to steady yourself. Although you knew it was the room spinning, not you, and so focused on that, you didn’t even realize what Rafe was doing until the cool air you’d briefly felt against your core was replaced by his mouth. The action made your back arch, and—against your will—you reached down to press your hand against his head.
He hummed in between your thighs.
“You never let me do this anymore,” you heard him whisper, his breath against your skin before he dived back in.
To be fair, you never let him do anything, but especially this. It was too intimate, too loving, and those words were so far from the true nature of your relationship it wasn’t even funny. After all, Rafe was now at a place where he had to drug you just to get you to stop fighting against him. You found it interesting because he never minded the fight before. In fact, you’d even say that some part of him enjoyed it.
You wondered what had changed.
His head moved back and forth between your thighs, and it made you squirm. One of Rafe’s hands reached up to dig into your leg, holding you still. The other found your hand, and you were unable to remember that you didn’t like holding his hand. Another gesture that you felt was too intimate, something Rafe always liked to pretend that your relationship was.
Just when you were on the brink of coming all over his tongue, your husband pulled away, but not before pressing a quick kiss to the inside of your thigh. With stars just barely floating in your vision, you laid there, eyes falling closed as you fought to regulate your breathing.
A voice in your head told you that you didn’t want this, and that you needed to get up…but you couldn’t find the strength to.
When Rafe’s hands were on you again, they were pulling away every piece of fabric they touched, and you couldn’t help the tears that kissed your eyes. Being forced to feign compliance in your own assault somehow hurt a thousand times worse than if Rafe had simply grabbed you and held you down. You wondered if this made it easier on him, and you thought about how much Rafe hated being reminded of the things he did to you.
It was like it hurt him to remember it that way, to acknowledge it for what it was.
When he slid into you, you couldn’t help the small whimper you let out, eyes rolling as he stretched you out. Rafe’s hands were on you, pulling you closer, and as if your arms had a mind of their own, you threw them around him. His chest was pressed to yours as he thrust into you, and you pressed your face into the crook of his neck. He cursed when he sank into you again, and your toes curled.
“You’re so mean to me, you know that?”
One of his hands tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck.
“...have to drug my own wife just to get her to fuck me…”
Your nails dragged along the expanse of his back, and Rafe hummed at the feeling. You’d forgotten what it felt like to lie beneath him and just let him have his way with you. It felt like so long since he hadn’t had to force you down and take his cock despite what you may have wanted. Although, your current position wasn’t all that different, but you couldn’t ignore how relaxed you were from whatever he’d slipped you.
Rafe shifted, hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. His blue eyes glinted in the low lighting, and you blearily blinked up at him as he gazed down at you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours while still holding your gaze. Your lips parted at a particularly hard thrust, and the corner of his lips curved upwards at the sight.
Deep in the back of your mind, you knew you didn’t want this, but it was for so many reasons that you were struggling to remember. For the time being, all you could focus on was the curve of his cock as he repeatedly pushed it into you and how good it made you feel. One of your legs hooked around his waist, and Rafe’s perfect teeth winked at you as he grinned.
“I missed this, beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”
The bed jostled from your movements, and Rafe glanced down between you to watch himself disappear into you.
“I can’t wait to fill you up,” he told you, making your heart skip a beat and reminding you of how and why you’d found yourself in this position in the first place. “Can’t wait to see you swollen and round again and fucking glowing.”
You murmured his name, but you couldn’t tell if it was in protest or not.
Your mind was all over the place, and when Rafe’s hips curved into yours again, you arched your chest up into his. Sweat clung to your frame, and you briefly wondered how made you would be at him in the morning. You knew this wouldn’t be his only attempt—Rafe always proving to be more than thorough when trying for a baby—and you now weakly wondered about having to be cautious of the food in your own house.
You could tell when he was close, his thrusts becoming sloppy and his breathing picking up. He started to kiss you more, each kiss becoming messier and more open mouthed than the last. In your inebriated state of mind, you kissed him back, alarm bells going off deep within your bones. Your own breathing was labored, like you couldn’t get air into your lungs fast enough.
When Rafe came the first time—and you knew that it would be the first of the night—he grunted in your ear as he spilled into you. Your nails were trailing along his skin as he plunged his cock into you, not even stopping when you felt him start to soften, lazily thrusting into your folds. Your own climax was just around the corner when he spoke.
“I will fuck you all night,” he whispered against your cheek, his tone vaguely threatening. “I will fuck you as many times as it takes until you give me what I want.”
He leaned back a bit, his nose touching yours as he tilted his head, eyeing you in a way that made your skin grow cold.
“...and I will do whatever I have to to make you…” he looked between your unfocused eyes. “...agreeable.”
2K notes
·
View notes