Hii!! Welcome to my blog, I'm Mills :3 You're free to reach out to me and chat whenever, I'm rlly nice I swear 😕
Please read my blog rules and request boundaries before submitting requests!
I write SFW & NSFW. As for my NSFW boundaries, minors are advised not to interact, but doing so won't earn you a block. I have the mindset where if you know what you're reading and you handle it maturely and DON'T repeat it in real life whatsoever, it should be fine.
Please choose what you decide to consume very wisely.
– Characters I write for
– Masterlist
Latest works (updated 10/11): Tightrope — L.Howlett
Rules under the cut!
— Blog Rules
– I will only do requests with a plotline. 'Fluff', 'Angst', 'Dom!Reader' etc isn't a plot. Just a brief overview of what you want me to write suffices! No need to stress it 😚
– As for HCs, just specify what type/scenario of HCs you want! Don't just put 'Scott Summers HCs' or something like that 👅
– My writing is mine, do not repost it on other websites. Reblogs are always, always welcome!
– No taglists, I have nothing against them but it's a lil too much of a hassle for me lol
– Don't be afraid to tell me if I've missed any warnings/tags/specifications out! Just don't be mean 🫣
– Only request in my inbox, it might get messy if you request in the comments
– It takes a while for me to write since I get distracted easily, so don't request more than once if you already have and I haven't posted it, I've probably seen it and am trying my best to behead my writer's block 😔
— Request Boundaries
I don't do:
– Puke, piss, etc.. (Basically just those types of bodily fluids.)
– M4M/F4F/Poly relationships/smut; I'm not homophobic I SWEAR 😔 I just don't have experience writing them and don't have the confidence to do justice to your requests :(
I might write Cherik fluff/angst though! Just send your requests through and I'll see if I can do it 🙏
That's all for now! I'll update as I go, thank you for reading!
I'm rising out of my 12 foot deep grave just to say that my 2022 and present self would have never believed i would ever see ella purnell and jihyo being correlated
new image dropped and idc about the muscles (ofc they're yummy) but what i do care about is the hair and THIS specific piece of his hip being slightly squished like i can't NOT BITE IT??? CAN I BITE IT CAN I BITE IT CAN I BITE IT CAN I BITE IT
"X-men is becoming woke!" I'm sorry, have we been seeing the same series?
The main teacher is a disabled man who uses a wheelchair. The team has a powerful African lady who is literally called a god. In some universes, she is in an interracial relationship with Wolverine. The three most powerful members of the team are Jean, Storm, and Rogue, who are ALL women. Bishop is a smart and powerful black man. Forge is Native American and is super smart and builds cool futuristic tech stuff. One of the protagonists is a chinese-american girl whose love interest is a dark-skinned Latino dude. Mystique is literally gender fluid and married to a woman. Mystique also got the woman pregnant by giving herself a penis, which is how Kurt was born. Kitty Pryde is confirmed to be bisexual. Magick is confirmed to be bisexual. Iceman came out as a gay man. Wolverine dated the literal actually HERCULES in one comic. Deadpool has been confirmed by multiple writers (AND THE MOVIE) to be pansexual, and even has a (VIATNAMESE) nonbinary love interest in one comic. The entire series is about minorities living in a society that despises them.
But yeah, sure. Complain about Morph, a SEXLESS SHAPESHIFTER WHO WAS BARELY EVEN IN THE ORIGINAL SHOW, being nonbinary and having a crush on Wolverine.
Xmen has ALWAYS been woke. It's a metaphor for oppression and how anyone who differs from the societal norm is treated terribly. OF COURSE they're going to have queer characters in there 💀
Summary: Your love for crocheting is apparent across the whole school, but a sense of reluctance clouds your vision at the thought of gift-giving towards Logan.
CW/Tags: fluff, kinda drags idk I'm sorry, REALLY stupid ending, not proofread I'm too lazy and it's sinus season, we have time manipulation powers guys, no use of Y/N, don't like don't read.
A/N: HELLO long time no fic guys (I'm going insane please help) this is honestly like so stupid idk why it's so FUCKING long hello???? Ik it's alr in the tags but the ending is like so extremely fucking stupid I'm humiliated....... Anyways guys try to enjoy this hahahaahhaha don't flame me pls
WC: 2.4K (holy SHIT girl) / Navigation
You had a thing amongst the X-Men— you were notorious for crocheting impromptu gifts for everyone, predominantly for winter use. No one in their right mind would voluntarily wear yarn in the summer, unless they had a thing for heat strokes.
Well, to be fair, the craft store situated nearest to the mansion only sold the hefty type of yarn, so you physically couldn’t make anything light. But still.
Your hyperfixation on fibre arts had reached most of them— Scott with earmuffs which could be worn comfortably over his visor without disrupting the toggle, Storm and her suit-complimenting beanies, and Rogue who had received so many pairs of gloves she had to dedicate a whole drawer for them in her room. At this point, you'd woven your way through the whole mansion, pretty much everyone having received a small gift; the students with a 70% chance of having a simple keychain.
Everyone, except Logan.
It's not that you weren't fond of him—in fact, he was even up there with Rogue and the others— it's just.. he was always so reclusive. Yeah, you could hold a decently consistent conversation with him without breaking a sweat, but he seemed the type to brush gifts or tokens of appreciation off without a second thought. That’s what made you contemplate bestowing your handmade offerings of affection upon him.
If you wanted to say you were afraid of impending rejection, it wouldn’t be true. You’d handed some keychains to a few uptight kids you taught, and the sight of the metallic glint attached to a scrap of vibrant yarn in the rubbish didn’t affect you. Perhaps it was because they were only a clique of immature youngsters, but your ego wasn’t usually even touched that easily no matter the level of maturity.
So why were you so uncertain?
Inwardly, you somewhat knew that there was a chance— you craved his validation. Which was really, very pathetic. Your ego was not nearly as inflated as his, but acknowledging the info would undoubtedly have an effect on it, so you kept the classified data under lock and key. Well, maybe Charles knew. But even if he did, he fortunately kept your dignity intact.
Nevertheless, you’d gotten tipsy humiliatingly early in the night after spending quality time with Ororo and ended up stumbling back to your room, determined to overcome your inner wimp and make something for Logan. You brainstormed for approximately 7 minutes before coming with a conclusion; gloves. Just like the many pairs you'd created for his ‘friend’.
‘I’m your friend, not your father,’ the idiot stated. Bullshit. Abso-fucking-lute bullshit. You heard them when passing by in the corridor on the way to a class and had to restrain using your powers to rewind that short burst of time just so you could shut Logan up and shove those words right back up his ass.
But unfortunately, you realised a little too much time later— after the alcohol-established period of boldness had subsided, of course— that you were still very much a pussy. Perhaps you were lost in the suppression of the alcohol, because you'd somehow already ended up with a pair of specialised gloves with slits, strong magnets fastened to the edges which accommodated the adamantium of Logan's claws.
If everything fell into accordance with your brainstorming, the magnets would automatically adjust to the position of the protruding metal under his skin every time he slid them on. Damn it, why weren't you this creative when you were sober? Maybe you should drink more. If only you had his healing factor; then your liver wouldn't be fucked for life.
You glanced up at the clock on your bedroom wall, bracing yourself for the ridiculously early time unavoidably displayed upon the aged face.
10:21 p.m.
Fucking hell. Basically the whole goddamn mansion was still up, the younger kids an exception. It was a weekend, after all.
After a short-lived interval of contemplation, you concluded two options. You had the option of using your energy and abandoning the project without physically undoing the whole thing; pretending it never happened, or B, actually fucking overcome your disconcerting fear of giving Logan a gift.
You'd deeply considered the first option.
Very. Deeply.
But in a self-ball-kicking resolution, you chucked your own uncertainty far, far down your throat and decided on simply marching over to Logan and handing him the navy pair of gloves.
⊰⊹ฺ
Mentally uttering repeated strings of curses, you approached his bedroom door— you figured that was where he was, anyway. He wasn't in his usual place; the grimy couch in front of the fireplace which was almost literally hanging on by a thread.
Earlier, you'd taken a glimpse at the contents of the fridge in hopes of a tasty Swiss roll miraculously appearing, but instead noticed the fact that there was no beer. To conclude, Logan was probably restraining himself from impaling Scott and fermenting him into his own ‘Cyclops-made Heineken’.
Your hands fidgeted with the stitches on the openings for his claws, thumb running over the cool, metallic surface of the small magnets. God, why were you stressing this so hard? Logan was just a guy with kitty claws and a half-assed personality. He wasn't that intimidating, especially when dormant and presumably partially asleep by now. He was—literally— an old man at heart. The dude probably couldn't even stay up past 11:30.
Ultimately, you took a sharp breath before raising your free hand and firmly rapping at the door twice. Your ears picked up the faint rustle of a page turning and the brief thud of a book cover falling shut.
He was reading? Damn, guess your old man description was accurate after all. A shift of position, and the creak of a wooden chair groaning under his weight. “It's open.”
You skeptically twist the knob and push on the door, poking your head through the crack before stepping in and gently pushing it shut behind you. He's leant against his table in a semblance of leisure, gaze fixed on the metal of his dog tags as he wipes them with a thin tissue.
Your own gaze drifts to his tousled sheets, zeroing in on the faint outline of a bulky book poorly concealed by the covers. You have to curb the grin threatening to spread onto your face at the sight. He's embarrassed.
Tragically, an unsuccessfully stifled sound somewhere between a snort, a giggle, and a spray bottle escapes your throat, “I didn't know you could read.”
The hands on his necklace halt as he looks up at you cautiously. “...What?”
You smile with feigned innocence, “I didn't know you read.”
He cocks an eyebrow, scoffing out a dry laugh. “That wasn't what ya said the first time. And I don't read.”
You suppress a snicker at his clearly veiled shame and nod over to the vague outline under his blanket. “What's that, then? Sure as hell isn't a woman.”
His eyes narrow in on you as he rises, sauntering over menacingly like he was in some type of slasher. Your smile only widens. You decide to just taunt him even more, even though it probably wasn't the greatest idea to do so to someone with metal claws. But even if you did get attacked, you could travel back and act as if it never happened.
He glares down at you, head tilted. You thought you glimpsed a twinge of humour behind the hazel, and it only adds fuel to the fire. “Whatcha readin’? Pride and Prejudice? Little Women? I presume it's a classic— y’know, considering your ag—”
An unprompted, somewhat restrained grin crawls onto his lips as he cuts you off, “Why’re you here, bub? ‘Cause 'm sure as hell you’re not here just to ask for a goddamn book review.”
Fuck. Gloves.
Heart abruptly starting to hammer in your chest, you nonchalantly shove a hand in your pocket and squeeze the coarse yet soft material of the acrylic yarn. You swallow thickly, fidgeting with a fuzzy you somehow already managed to get your fingers on, heat dragging down your ears and spreading across your face. Gosh, you probably look mortified right now.
You swear under your breath, fumbling the gloves out of your pocket. “Right—” you clear your throat, displaying them out in front of you like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. A flash of curiosity crosses his features; a cloud moving past the sun. Well, the other way round. If that was scientifically possible.
“I made these for you.” You toss them at him and he swiftly catches them mid-air, all while you stare at the fibre like you half expected each individual stitch to spontaneously combust. You unfortunately weren't Scott, so you couldn’t laser-eye the thing. “Figured freezing your fingers off might— uh—cramp your little ‘best there is at what I do’ thingy.”
He gives the intricate stitching a once-over, turning the solid navy gloves over in his hands. A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips and an eyebrow raises curiously as he regards the claw openings. “Made ‘em for me?”
The rhetorical inquiry makes your eyes almost instinctively roll. “No. Made ‘em for fucking Magneto. Of course it's for you. Who the fuck else has claws?”
He slips one on and hoists an accusing eyebrow at you. “Don’t get ya panties in a twist, Time Bomb. Look like Pyro jus’ blew a fire in your face.”
You defensively fold your arms in front of your chest, trying your level best to ignore the itch to lift a certain finger situated between your index and ring. “Hey, you're not exactly a joyride to talk to, let alone give a gift.”
He scoffs, sliding the other glove on and flexing his fingers. “You tryna bend my bones? I can feel ‘em followin’ the magnets. Neat trick, though.” Unexpectedly, he pops his claws out with a snikt, prompting you to reflexively flinch and step back. “Jeez, Claws! Watch the face.”
He groans, “God, you're a diva.”
“What can I say? Sort of a package deal with the whole ‘Time-Waster’ schtick. You're way more of a diva than I am anyway,” you grin sarcastically bright.
There's a glimmer of amusement in the green-ness of his eyes, and you unfortunately find yourself reveling in it.
Turning on his heel, he clicks his tongue once and nods in a gesture for you to get on the bed. The action takes you aback by the unbridled directness of it, but you end up crawling up onto the cool covers regardless. “I was just here to give you those, y’know? I can leave if you want.”
He somewhat shakes his head as he settles on the chair opposite your position perched on the edge of the bed. “Stick around, ‘s not like I mind,” the words are delivered in his usual sardonic tone, but you detect an underlying sense of insistence.
Fuck. Was he laying the charm on real thick tonight, or were you just delusional?
You bite the inside of your cheek, scooching back and settling in a little more confidently. “Stick around?” you echo, teasing lilt in your tone despite how much his reassurance affects you. “Since when do you enjoy company? Or do you just wanna sit over there and brood while I talk my tongue off?”
He huffs, the noise more entertained than anything. “Don’t mind when it's yours. Quieter than anythin’ else anyway.”
The words hit you like a blow to the gut with how casual the delivery is— as if he was just making his usual comment on the tactics he could use to get rid of Scott. Inevitably, the warmth already lingering on your face strengthens as you find a response.
“Quieter? High praise. I'm flattered, Howlett. And here I was under the impression that I’m ‘Most Likely to Talk Your Ear Off’ according to my old yearbook,” you laugh dryly, attempting to ease the nearly tangible tension hanging in the air between the two of you.
That half-smirk makes its way back onto his lips as his gaze turns a touch more intent, “Ain't news to me. Still want ya to stay.”
Holy shit. Is he trying to cause you an agonisingly slow death? You were clearly trying to manage this whole interaction with sarcasm, but he wasn't letting any of it slide.
You swallow cautiously, throat suddenly a narrow pathway leading down to your rapidly flipping stomach. Hauling your legs up onto the bed and placing your weight back onto the headboard, you try to alleviate the voice in your head convincing you this was something further than platonic. “Wow. If I knew you were this sentimental I would've prepared a speech before I came in here. Gloves can't nearly be enough.”
He snorts, “Don't push it, bub.”
You raise your hands in feigned surrender, a grin spreading across your lips. “Okay, okay. Fine,” you mutter, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeve in a futile attempt to compose yourself. “How do you like the gloves anyway?”
He looks down at his hands in his lap like he'd just realised he was still wearing them. “Warm.”
You gawk at him incredulously. “Warm? C’mon, I deserve better than that, Log. I crocheted ‘em drunk. Practically risked my fingers. Y’know how I am under the influence— could’ve found a way to fucking impale myself with the hook or something.”
He grunts absentmindedly— gaze seemingly too focused on your face as if he was admiring you more than the gloves. But like him snapping out of a trance, his attention is almost immediately diverted back to the stitching when he processes your statement. “I'll be usin’ ‘em. Smart move for the claws. Don't have to destroy ya hard work when I pop ‘em out.”
Sighing dramatically, you lean back against the back of the bed with your arms splayed behind your head. Taking on your usual route, you taunt him in a flat tone, “Guess that's the highest form of Logan Howlett appreciation I'm gonna get tonight. Have I reached my quota? It's a shame; I'm such a thoughtful, empathetic, charisma—”
A low chuckle graces his reaction as he cuts you off, “God, really testin’ your luck tonight, aren't ya?”
You shrug, a giggle bubbling up your own throat— some of the emotion-filled tension lifting off the atmosphere as you get back to your usual banter, “What can I say? Maybe next time I'll make you a tophat— perhaps a red tailcoat to go with it, if I'm feeling real dedicated.”
He glances up at you skeptically, an eyebrow once again raised as he scrutinises your expression, “Oddly specific, Time Bomb. Ya know somethin’ I don't?”
You beam at him, observing the way it only enhances his skepticism. “Possibly. Somewhere in the far, far future, you're one of the greatest there are.”
Special credits to this song for making me push through the final stretch of this fucking fic 😭😭😭😭
CW/Tags: not proofread bc I literally finished this at 5am 😭, Logan is an ASS, a lot lot of feelings, lowk heavy angst I THINK, no use of Y/N, don't like don't read.
A/N: @rambosgirl Ily girlie I really enjoyed writing this :33 I AM SO INSANELY SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG !!!!!!! Also while writing the ending of this my Spotify Smart Shuffle fucking played First Love/Late Spring by Mitski and I swear it knows how fitting it is bro wtaf ok LAST statement but like this is my first 1K+ word fic are you guys proud of me :33 I'm starting this at like 3am so don't bully me if the ending doesnt' make sense ok byeeeeeeeee
WC: 1.6K (get comfy guys) / Navigation
It was unnecessarily irritating. And frankly really, really fucked up.
Anytime you turned your back from a seemingly butterfly-inducing interaction with Logan, you found him all over Jean as if he wasn’t just chatting you up four minutes ago.
Jean Grey was—from what you’ve surveyed over your time at the mansion—not really phased, despite her somewhat established relationship with Scott. She was intelligent and good-natured, flashing you sickeningly sweet smiles in the corridors and occasionally complimenting your outfits as if hers weren’t twice as stunning.
But every time you spotted Logan gazing down at her with the look you thought he’d reserved for your eyes only, the image of perfection the redheaded telepath had materialised in front of you dissipated like a glass of ice left to liquefy under the scorching sun.
Because she never pushed him away, and she was so clearly inevitably attracted, whether she displayed it or not. It was virtually written all across her sharp features, and you knew the same was scripted all over your own when speaking to Logan.
That dip your heart made every time you saw the two’s chemistry from afar; it wasn't just blatant jealousy.
It was deeper.
It was nastier.
It clung to your insides like a weight you couldn't possibly shake off. The constant sense that you were just a swift distraction, a momentary diversion from the real object of his desire.
It ate you up from the inside out and exhausted you to no end.
When Storm or Rogue cautiously approached you and tried to console you, you shrugged it off as if it was some uncomplicated highschool sweetheart drama. They knew damn well it wasn’t. Your conflicting feelings for Logan were gradually making you lose yourself— your well-built dignity. You were slowly but surely morphing into someone you didn’t even recognise. Someone who accepted being second best without any contemplation.
All for a man who was immortal. All for someone who presumably considered you a fleeting paragraph in his primitive life while he was an entire novel in yours.
You wanted— needed to locate yourself in the vast body of water which was your feelings. You needed your sense of self-worth to reappear by a miracle, nevertheless, you knew it would take immense time and exertion to track it back down.
But in a wretched attempt to do so, you settled on a fairly elaborate plan and started disregarding each one of Logan’s advances. Suddenly, you conveniently had somewhere else to be every time he approached, you pulled back and overlooked his easy smiles along with the playful banter you practically used to feed off of.
At first, it felt as if you were reclaiming some of your power, spotting his perplexed looks in your peripheral vision as you wandered off to God knows where. But of course, everything you did came back to bite you in the ass. If anything, it only made the truth clearer. He barely even noticed, and if he did, he didn’t give a single shit.
And Jean? She remained unbothered, untouchable— flawless, even. You were the mastermind of this whole game, yet you were the only one losing.
After a particularly humiliating stretch of witnessing Logan and Jean’s shared giggles and stolen looks from across the table, you ultimately found your resolve. Alcohol really was liquid courage, because after a few drinks and several stabs of food, you closed in on them lounging on the couch post-meal.
Logan’s bare arm was extended across the back of the grimy cushions behind Jean like some kind of cheesy rom-com, cowlicks a prominent silhouette against the weak flickering of the television. But no matter how much you resented them— her, you would never even come by the opportunity to be in the redhead’s position.
“Howlett,” you enunciated, voice sharp enough to slice through the ambient noise like a shard of glass.
Howlett. No other soul could call him that without repercussions. Aside from you. That was why you felt so unique, so distinct from the others, that was the crumb of specialty you were desperately clinging on to.
He shifts to glance over his shoulder, a spark of recognition igniting within him at the sound of your voice—not missing the shred of urgency concealed beneath it. “Hm? What's up?”
You hesitate with your next words, intently but subtly taking in his scruffy features in the dimmed lighting for what felt like it could be the final time. Because after this, you knew for a fact neither one of you could view each other in the same way. You were the one who let him under your skin, you were the one who had to tear him out, and it unfortunately was an agonisingly slow process.
“We need to talk.”
Four words. Yet, it still gave you the sensation of several weights placed upon your back; the unavoidable impending argument, manipulation spat right into your face, and the most dreaded of all, how circumstances would be after tonight.
His expression stiffened mildly as he reluctantly got up from the couch, aged leather groaning beneath his weight. The sensation of Jean abruptly invading the back of your mind was extremely unsettling and even though she appeared unphased, she, without a question, detected your abnormal uneasiness and was gingerly flicking through your thoughts.
Which was apprehensive, to say the least.
Logan fell into step with you as you departed from one of the many doddering living rooms, proceeding to a more secluded space nearing the obnoxious stairs in front of the grand entryway, mansion almost bizarrely silent with all the kids asleep. Jean wasn’t in your head anymore, but she undoubtedly already knew your objectives to the script.
You halted and so did Logan, weight finding its position set upon the auburn wood of the stairs.
He eyed you with undivided attention. Your stomach threatened to do a fucking flip despite the conditions, the look nearly making you scrap all of this and go right back to being his side piece regardless of the anguish it put your mind through. But you dug your heels in, the clearing of your throat echoing sharply off the vacant walls.
You square your shoulders and tilt your chin up boldly, aiming to stand your ground. “What the hell am I to you? Because from what I see and a whole lot of other people do, I’m just an afterthought. Filler for the gaps Jean left open. Care to elaborate on that, Howlett?”
He sighed, glancing at the wall behind you as if he was already fed up. “It’s not like that, bub. You’re makin’ it bigger than it is.”
Your blood scorched at the casual dismissal. Your voice inevitably rose but doesn’t go over a whisper, “Don’t patronise me, Logan,” you scoff. “I’m not some stupid kid with a stupid crush, so don’t let your ego get out of hand. I’ve watched you get all up on her, and then come to me when she’s got a class. Do you even fucking hear yourself?”
His jaw stiffened, his own frustration growing. “You really think it’s that easy? I never asked you to get involved. You know how it is with me and her. You don’t get how fucked my life is, it’s your own fuckin’ fault things got messy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go sulk somewhere else, I don’t give a shit how crappy your life is. It doesn’t take much to be a decent fucking human!— mutant, whatever. I’m not gonna let you come crying to me when things don’t work out with Jean. I’m worth more than that. You can’t see that, it’s your damn problem, not mine.”
He was visibly trying to find his footing, and you took it as an opportunity to carry on, “It’s not my fault this got sloppy. You can’t just invite a woman for a nice drive and end up throwing her out the door a moment later. You knew damn well what you were doing to m—”
“You don’t know what I gotta deal with every day. It’s difficult. I never wanted it to get like this. You were the one overthinkin’ it.”
You shook your head forcefully, exasperation boiling over. “I don’t give a fuck, Logan— stop hiding behind that, you don’t even remember half of your damn life! It’s not messy, it’s cruel. I’ve had my own trouble, but I don’t use it as an excuse to hurt people who care about me. Don’t put all of it on my back.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. I’ve dealt with you for half my time here. I’ve had enough of your bullshit.” A flash of remorse graced his eyes but it didn’t do a thing.
“I’m not your backup plan. I’m not waiting for you to look at me the way you look at Jean. I deserve someone who doesn’t just act like they give a shit. I’ve made my choice and you’ve made yours. I’m done. Goodnight, Howlett.”
With a harsh turn of your heel, you walked away with a heavy heart. But your head was clear for the first time in months, your shoulders were lighter, and the clarity you felt nearly blew your veins out. It would be painstakingly tough to face him tomorrow morning, but you knew you would get over it eventually.
Also i just realised in the morning Washing Machine Heart works WAYYy better but it's whatever I guess 😮💨
A/N: Haiii :333 ANYWAYS i felt the urge to write this while listening to Tightrope-Michelle Williams (who would've guessed 😂😂😂) and idk how to feel ab it bc its 4am and i lowk need to sleep or my jetlag is gonna get wayyy fucking worse ALSOO this song is so underappreciated i swear i will strangle someone WITH a tightrope if they ever say they dont like it....... This is also a tad dramatic bear with me now guys
WC: 245 (LAWLLL i wrote this in like 20 mins shut up) / Navigation
You were always a breath away from falling.
You were constantly on a tightrope; if you fell and hurtled down, you had to accept the reality where you were just a momentary diversion from her. A fleeting thing to keep him entertained while he was parted with the real object of his desire.
The rope stretched far, far into the concept of eternity. It was meaningless to endure the pit etched into your stomach, to keep paying no mind to the blistering soles of your feet as you grasped onto that last atom of aspiration you were convinced was still tangible.
You were supposed to be a confident, autonomous woman. It was carved into your reputation. A powerful mutant with abilities to alter reality and defend your companions— your family.
If you were able to amend reality, why acknowledge it?
Without her in his presence, you could feel that trigger waiting to be pulled, the spark awaiting its ignition as you worked a conflicting resolution over while together on a mission, engaged in playful banter in front of the daunting staircases you both eventually divided into for beloved kids you had to enlighten.
The lack of repercussions for calling him by his surname. The risks you would hesitate on— all of it vanishing like salt on a gas-induced flame as soon as he appeared by your side.
You were willing to take the risk and not lose the chance as long as you did it with him.
Guys i have a smut fic in the works and i actually got to the smut and i dont..... Know...... How to pull her pants down........
