Georgia Clark was changing bandages, gulping at the look of the rushed stitches between his chest. He was asleep, his face was twitching before waking up. His breath hitched, his cold blue eyes searched for something, or someone.
One look was enough to tell how harsh war had treated him.
TW! angst, hurt/confort, cecilia is dead, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │ Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Charles Xavier
The night you kissed me
Elora Cuana was born with a gift.
She was, what someone would call, a mutant.
No one had really noticed her gift, even if it was hard to keep a secret. People would say she had been blessed with beauty, and nothing more. From every side, every angle, she was ravishing to no avail. Her mutancy had been easy to deal with, not even she had noticed the oddness of her angelic features. There was no death count to her power, because she seemed to have no power.
Until recently, only one man had neglected her advances.
Charles Xavier could not reach her mind, and she could not reach his pants, or can she?
TW! tease, m!masturbation, f!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.
A part of us
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6 │Chap 7 │ Chap 8│ Chap 9 │Chap 10 │Chap 11 │Chap 12 │Chap 13 │Chap 14 │Chap 15 │Chap 16 │Chap 17 │Chap 18 │Chap 19 │Chap 20 │Chap 21 │Charles' Ending │ Logan's Ending
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Brian Jackson
Sore Loser
The bottle stopped spinning. You grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
TW! tease, first time, m!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Bruce Robertson
Bite me
Bruce Robertson does not give a shit about the weather. In fact, he thinks he’s better.
Amanda Drummond has drunk a little bit too much.
TW! dubious consent, mention of drugs, angst, in public, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex, asphyxiation.
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂
Tom Lefroy
Out of touch
Tom Lefroy enters a brothel expecting indulgence, but instead finds himself utterly schooled. With sharp wit and a stolen kiss, you leave the arrogant charmer breathless, his confidence shaken, and his education—unexpectedly—expanded.
TW! prostitution, in public, making out, mention of f!oral.
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
The air was cold and heavy as Logan, Hank, and Charles made their way toward Cerebro. The tension was palpable, anxiety radiating off each of them like a static charge. No one spoke—the only sound was the mechanical hum of the door sliding open with a robotic, “Welcome, Professor.”
Hank’s eyes were burdened with guilt.
They stepped inside Cerebro, the vast chamber looming around them like a cathedral of forgotten technology. Hank broke the silence first, his voice tight. “Raven’s wounded. She won’t be moving fast.”
Charles, meanwhile, brushed the dust off his helmet, his hands trembling slightly. Logan’s lips twisted into a grimace. At least in this twisted version of the timeline, Raven would live.
“These are muscles I haven’t stretched in a long time,” Charles admitted, his voice tinged with unease.
He placed the helmet on his head and immediately gasped, his body jerking as thousands of voices flooded his mind all at once. Cerebro’s systems groaned under the strain, lights flickering as the machine struggled to keep up. Charles’ face contorted in pain as the cacophony of thoughts—screaming, crying, laughing, cursing—overwhelmed him. He tried to focus, to push through, but it was too much. He cried out, his voice raw.
“Charles!” Logan shouted, rushing forward to pull him back.
The machine sparked and hissed before exploding, its systems overloading. Charles groaned, yanking the helmet off as it smoked in his hands. Hank moved quickly, trying to calm him down.
“I’ll check the generator,” he said, already heading for the door. “Cerebro hasn’t been used in years. The fuses might be blown.”
Logan watched Hank leave, then turned to Charles. “It’s not the machinery, is it?” he asked, his voice low.
Charles shook his head, his breathing ragged. “I can’t do this,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “My mind… it won’t take it.”
“Yes, you can,” Logan said firmly.
“It’s not a question of being rusty,” Charles snapped, his tone a mix of frustration and fear. “I can flip the switches, I can turn the knobs. But my power comes from here—” He tapped his temple with a clenched fist, then slowly moved his hand to his chest, over his heart. His voice faltered. “It comes from… here. And it’s broken.” He turned his wheelchair away, his shoulders slumping. “I feel like one of my students. Helpless.” He rolled further from Cerebro, his voice rising. “It was a mistake coming here. A mistake freeing Erik. Calling her was another fucking mistake. This whole thing has been a bloody disaster.” Tears streamed down his face now. “I’m sorry, Logan. They sent back the wrong one.”
Logan nodded, his expression grim. “You’re right,” he said.
Charles stopped, turning back to face him.
“It was supposed to be you,” Logan continued, stepping closer. “But I was the only one who could physically make the trip.” He crouched in front of Charles, his voice softening. “I don’t know how long I’ve got here. But I do know that a long time ago, I was your most helpless student.”
Logan leaned in, his loyalty to Charles outweighing his anger. “You unlocked my mind,” he said. “You showed me what I was. What I could be. I don’t know how to do that for you. But I know someone who might.” He paused, his eyes locking onto Charles’. “Look into my mind.”
Charles hesitated. “You saw what I did to Cerebro,” he said. “You don’t want me inside your head.”
“I saw what you’ve done to y/n,” Logan shot back.
Charles flinched, biting his lip.
“There’s no damage you could do that hasn’t already been done,” Logan said, his voice steady. “Trust me.”
Reluctantly, Charles reached out, his fingers brushing Logan’s temples. Instantly, he was plunged into the chaos of Logan’s memories—flashes of torture, of battles fought and lost. And then, among it all, you. Smiling. Laughing. Always just out of reach. Then your tears. Logan’s choices. Your battles. Your sacrifices. It was overwhelming.
Charles recoiled. “I don’t want your suffering. I don’t want your future.”
“Look past my future,” Logan urged. “Look for your future.”
Charles hesitated, then dove deeper. This time, he wasn’t in Logan’s mind—he was in his own. Traveling through consciousness, moving beyond time. He saw himself, older, broken, a man who had lost you. The grief in his future self’s eyes was unbearable. He called out to himself, his voice soothing, desperate. It all became clear. This was him in the future—a man still fighting, still grieving, still desperate to hold onto what he’d lost. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t lose you.
Charles snapped back to the present, his breathing ragged. “Where is she?” he demanded, his voice desperate. “What will happen to her?”
Logan exhaled, then let him see. A different future, the future he came from. A version where you were safe. A version of you that belonged to Logan—your hair longer, streaks of gray framing your face, a gleaming ring on your finger as you hugged Logan tightly. Your face was radiant, untouched by scars, unmarked by pain.
But Logan pulled him back quickly, his grip firm. He wanted Charles to know, in the most possessive way possible, that you loved someone else. That someone was Logan. At least, in the future he was fighting to hold onto.
“Have you found what you were looking for?” Logan asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Charles didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The realization was too much—that in Logan’s future, you were whole. Happy. And not his.
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
What hurt Logan the most wasn’t the way Professor X was pleading, with raw desperation in his voice, or the way he clung to something unseen, begging for relief. It wasn’t even the way his screams echoed through the room or the undeniable truth of your lingering feelings for Charles.
It was the realization that the past had been altered, and now, Logan wasn’t sure if you would ever be his.
In the timeline Logan had come from, you were supposed to nearly kill Hank. You were supposed to kill Raven. And in doing so, your relationship with Charles would have shattered beyond repair. In that future, you had vanished without a trace, only to reappear years later in Logan’s life. That gentle spark between you would have grown into something brighter, fiercer—a life built together.
But now? That future was slipping through his fingers like sand.
Charles wasn’t supposed to keep loving you. Not like this. Not for this long. And for a moment, Logan felt utterly lost. His confidence in the future—your future, your family, your life together—was gone. Shattered. Because Charles didn’t just want your comfort anymore; he needed it. And that need wasn’t born of some fleeting desire or the need to feel superior. It was real. It was raw. It was everything Logan had feared.
It all clicked when Logan saw the way Charles touched your face, hands framing you with an aching tenderness, as if he had just realized he’d been tricked. He had been played, and for once, Logan wasn’t sure whether to be angry at Charles or at himself.
Why had Professor X sent him back in time? To save Raven? To save the world? No.
The truth was in the way Charles looked at you now—his eyes wild, possessive, pleading. Logan had seen that look before, ever since you’d returned to him in the future. He’d dismissed it as lingering resentment, the ghost of an old wound from the day you’d killed Raven. But now it all made sense. Charles had sent Logan to the past under the guise of saving Raven, knowing full well it would bring you back to him.
Logan bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, as he watched you walk away from them both. His fist slammed into a nearby column, the impact reverberating through his arm as he dropped to his knees in front of Charles. Tears burned in his eyes, his patience worn thin.
How could Charles do this to him? How could he take you away so easily?
How could he?
The rage burned hot and fast—but then, as quickly as it came, it flickered, lost in something deeper. Logan had been many things in his long life, but above all, he had been loyal. Loyal to Charles. Loyal to the cause. Even now, after everything.
Without a word, Logan lifted Charles into his arms, carrying him toward the wheelchair Hank was rushing over. He set him down gently, hands lingering at his sides, fists trembling. He wanted to hate him, to despise him for what he had just done—destroyed the life Logan could have had with you.
But he couldn’t.
Instead, all he could think about was you. The nights you’d spent crying, the pain that had haunted you, the lives lost to your untamed powers. The weight of your grief, your guilt, your body pressed against his chest as you sobbed.
And then it hit him. That future he’d fought for—the one where you were his—wasn’t just a life of love. A future with him, no matter how much he had dreamed of it, meant pain. It meant loss. It meant death.
And a life with Charles? It was already happening, right in front of him.
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
Charles shouldn’t have been looking. He knew he shouldn’t. He had promised you—promised himself—that he wouldn’t invade your thoughts like this. It was a betrayal, a violation of the trust you had in him. But the images came anyway, unbidden and vivid, flooding his mind like a dam breaking. Your thoughts were an open book, and in its pages, he saw him.
Logan.
The connection between you and Logan was effortless, natural, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other. It was the kind of bond Charles had always longed for but could never quite grasp. And it stung. Oh, how it stung. Charles Xavier, the man who could reach into anyone’s mind, who could understand the deepest corners of the human psyche, had failed to reach you in the way Logan had.
And then there were the memories—memories he hadn’t meant to find but couldn’t avoid. Memories of you and Logan, years ago, on a mission he had sent you on. A night that should have been insignificant, but it wasn’t. It was everything. The way Logan had looked at you, the way you had looked back—Charles saw it all, and it burned. It burned like a brand seared into his mind, a constant reminder of what he could never have.
The craving hit him then, sharp and insistent.
The cure. That damn cure.
It whispered to him, a siren’s song promising relief from the storm raging inside him. But it wasn’t relief he wanted. Not really. It was you.
He needed you, and that need was stronger than any addiction, any cure. To have you, he would have to let it go.
But the images kept coming. Your hands tangled in Logan’s hair, his breath mingling with yours, the hum of something deeper than just physicality. You had been in his lap, surrendering to his touch, his kiss.
That kiss.
The one you had shared with Logan during training. Had you been training without him? The thought alone was enough to make his blood boil.
It had seemed innocent at the time, but now Charles saw it for what it was. Intimate. Familiar. He hadn’t been there, but he could see it as clearly as if he had. The way you had leaned into Logan, the way you had wanted him—it was too much. The jealousy surged through him, hot and unrelenting, like a wildfire consuming everything in its path. You liked him. More than Charles had ever realized. More than Charles could ever accept.
He wanted to go to you, to confront you, to demand answers. But his body betrayed him. His legs refused to move, as if rooted to the spot by the weight of his own emotions. He could only watch as you walked away, your steps deliberate, your back straight.
You knew. You had to know why he had kissed you earlier.
It hadn’t been about affection or desire. It had been about possession. A desperate, clawing attempt to remind you who you belonged to. To remind himself that the cure, that bitter, hollow thing, could never compare to the taste of your tears on his lips.
Charles leaned back against the column, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in around him.
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
The jet touched down at the X-Mansion, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. News had already spread—violent mutants had attacked congressmen. The reports were twisted, exaggerated, but still dangerous for you and your kind.
The public’s fear was growing, and you could feel it in the air, thick and suffocating. It was late, and public transport was your only option, but the thought of returning to your neighborhood filled you with dread. Everyone there suspected you were a mutant. What would they do if they found out? How would this news affect your life?
You wondered if it would be better to stay at the X-Mansion, to sleep there again, even if just for the night. The idea felt strange, like stepping back into a life you’d left behind. But as you followed Hank, Charles, and Logan into the mansion, it almost felt normal, as if you were coming home.
Almost.
As you stepped inside, Charles suddenly collapsed to the floor, his hands clutching his head, his body trembling violently. Instinct took over. You rushed to his side, helping him lean against a pillar.
Your heart raced as you looked at him, searching for signs of injury. Was he hurt? Had he been wounded and hidden it from everyone? Then your eyes fell to his legs, and it hit you. Weeks ago, you’d found him in his room, his gaze distant, a syringe in his hand. The memory flashed before your eyes, sharp and painful.
“Don’t look at me like that!” Charles snapped, his voice raw and desperate. “Like I’m broken. Like I’m—pitiful.”
Pain twisted his expression, his head pulling back against the pillar as another wave hit him.
“Don’t say that,” you said softly, your voice breaking.
You didn’t pity him—you never had. If anything, you pitied yourself for leaving when he needed you most.
Charles let out a bitter laugh, his fingers gripping the fabric of his pants. “As these go,” he said, gesturing to his legs, then to his head, “these come back. They all come back.”
A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched him, his pain mirroring your own. Seeing him like this—so vulnerable, so broken—hurt more than you could bear. You still loved him, still worried for him.
Charles moved quickly, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeve. He grabbed a piece of fabric to tie around his arm, his hands shaking as he reached for a needle. Hank came running, a dose in his hand, but you couldn’t let this happen.
Your hand shot out, grasping his wrist. You shook your head, silently pleading. He had to stop. He had to want to stop.
But he pulled away from your touch, reaching for the needle.
“Charles,” you whispered. If only he would really look at you, really see you, maybe he would understand.
Desperation took over. You took his hand and guided his fingers to your temple, dropping every wall, every carefully placed barrier in your mind. You let him in—let him feel everything. Every thought, every memory, every stolen glance and held breath, every time your heart had ached for him—it was all there, laid bare.
He saw it all—every fragment of the life you’d shared. The day you met in that abandoned building, his short hair falling across his temple, his eyes studying you with a curiosity that made your heart skip. The way you’d tried to run, always running, as if you had somewhere to fall. But slowly, inevitably, you’d fallen into his tenderness.
His thoughts had always blocked your path, making your words stumble, your speech uneven as he approached. You were never scared of him, not because he was a mutant like you, but because you knew he was your equal. You’d been searching for someone who understood, someone who saw you for who you were. And he had.
His mind had always kept you from running away, your stillness keeping him from breathing. It was a stupid game, one you’d played for years, circling each other, never quite letting go.
He saw the first time you saw him as something more than a friend. A cigarette passed between your lips and his, the smoke curling around you both, blurring the line until it disappeared entirely. The reflection of the whole sky in his eyes as you felt your breath falter for the first time. The kisses that came after were sweet and gentle, each one a discovery, a silent understanding that needed no words.
He saw your first time together, the way you’d explored each other’s bodies with an odd curiosity, free from the pressure of labels or expectations. It was just you and him, friends who had stumbled into something deeper. But then came the bitter moments—the ache in his chest when he saw you kiss someone else at a college party, the sting in your heart when he blushed at someone else’s attention. His jealousy, his honesty, pulsed through your mind as he realized you were still not his. And then, the vengeful kiss that gave away your true feelings, the one that sealed everything.
Years later, the story repeated itself. The same push and pull, the same game, the same ache. He saw it all, every moment, every memory, and it was too much. Too much to bear.
His brow furrowed. He had finally seen the truth of how you felt, the weight of everything you’d carried. For a moment, he hesitated, the needle slipping from his hand. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, and you hoped—prayed—that he finally understood.
Charles cupped your face, his touch gentle but urgent, and kissed you.
You froze.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t a kiss born of love or longing.
You couldn’t kiss him back because it wasn't real—it was revenge.
Because he knew how Logan felt about you. Because he knew your feelings for Logan had started to shift. This wasn’t about love; it was about possession, about reminding you where you belonged. Just as you had done years ago.
You pulled away, standing up and stepping back from him. Your heart ached, but you couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap again.
You turned and walked away, leaving him there, his hand still outstretched. And as you walked away, you realized something: you and Logan weren’t just friends anymore. Whatever was growing between you, it was real. And Charles knew it.
Tom Lefroy enters a brothel expecting indulgence, but instead finds himself utterly schooled. With sharp wit and a stolen kiss, you leave the arrogant charmer breathless, his confidence shaken, and his education—unexpectedly—expanded.
TW! prostitution, in public, making out, mention of f!oral.
This chapter was done thanks to @velmalav 's request <3
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5
Chapter 1
What a night. The bar was packed, buzzing with life, and you were preparing for your shift at the brothel. It wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it gave you a sense of independence. Your role was to serve drinks to men as they indulged in the flirtatious company of the women who worked there. You weren’t shy about the environment, though. Even if your job was merely to pour liquor, you had your own rules. If a gentleman offered a generous sum, if he could pay your rent in full, if he was handsome and you liked him—well, you weren’t above bending those rules.
Excuses flitted through your mind as your gaze landed on him.
Blue eyes, brown hair, freckles dusted across his cheeks. He tipped back a shot of whiskey, one brow raised, an air of indifference masking his features.
God, he was pretty.
And you weren’t the only one who noticed. Every woman in the room seemed to be vying for his attention, showering him with affection. It made you cringe a little, and you turned away to serve another customer.
“Each day you look lovelier,” the old man murmured, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Will you drink with me tonight?”
You smirked, pouring his beer. “Oh, aren’t you bold for your age? But I’m afraid my job only allows me to serve drinks, not partake in them.”
“I’ve seen you bend that rule now and then,” he countered. “Was it not with Sir Heatherman?”
“Indeed,” you replied, your tone light but firm, “but he promised a voyage to Asia and a rather extravagant sum. How could I refuse?”
“Give it up, old man,” a familiar voice interrupted, startling you. “I saw her first.”
You turned to see a regular customer—a young man, though not too young. He wasn’t the type to come for the women; he only ever showed up when he was troubled, usually over some marital spat with his wife. You’d often play the role of his counselor, offering advice like, “Buy her flowers,” or “Bring her a treat from the market.”
“Problems with the missus again?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“An apocalypse,” he sighed dramatically.
You gestured for him to follow you to a quieter corner of the bar. “Then I’ll have to charge you double for my counsel.”
As you moved to sit beside him, a hand suddenly gripped your arm. You slid out of the grasp effortlessly, used to men who thought they could claim you without permission.
“Sir, do not touch me,” you said coldly, turning to face the offender.
“How much for the night?” His voice was warm, his tone casual, as though discussing the weather.
You turned, recognizing him immediately—the handsome man you’d noticed earlier. What a shame, you thought, that such a pretty face could belong to someone so crass.
“I am a server, not a prostitute, Sir,” you replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I pour your drinks, not warm your bed.”
“But I bet you’re quite skilled at both,” he said, his tone dripping with flirtation as he took a seat beside your other customer.
“You may waver all you like, but you’ll receive neither,” you shot back, earning a chuckle from the man across from you.
You sat down, keeping a careful distance but continuing to pour drinks. Determined to ignore the handsome stranger, you turned your attention back to your regular.
“An apocalypse, you said?”
“Yes, my wife has asked for a—” he stammered, his face flushing. “For a— a— kiss.”
The blue-eyed man burst into laughter, his voice sharp and mocking. “You’ve come to a brothel because your wife asked for a kiss? Are you serious?”
“A kiss on the cunt,” the man clarified, his voice barely above a whisper.
The room seemed to freeze for a moment. Even the blue-eyed man fell silent.
You smirked, leaning forward. “Well, what’s the dilemma? If you’re already down there, you might as well pay courtesy.”
“How?” he asked, his voice trembling with embarrassment.
“You’ve gone awfully quiet, sir,” you said, turning to the blue-eyed man. “You were quite keen just moments ago. Are you suddenly shy?”
“Lefroy,” he muttered, his cheeks flushing as he avoided your gaze. “My name is Lefroy.”
“It seems to me,” you continued, your tone teasing, “that both of you come here seeking pleasure but forget to return the favor to the ladies. It’s quite simple, really.”
Mr Lefroy swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on you.
“Well, the cunt has many parts, Sir Hans, Mr Lefroy,” you said, addressing them both. “This will get rather descriptive. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
They nodded, their interest palpable.
“Very well,” you began, your voice calm and matter-of-fact. “Imagine a cunt—not just the hole, but the entirety of it.” You reached for the small notebook you kept tucked in your waistband and began to sketch, pointing as you explained. “When kissing a cunt, it’s not the hole you should be concerned about, but the clitoris.”
“The what?” Hans asked, his brow furrowed.
“The clitoris,” you repeated, indicating the spot on your drawing. “It’s a small bud, sometimes hidden between the lips. It’s incredibly sensitive, so you must start slowly.”
Both men nodded, their eyes fixed on your sketch.
“You might begin by kissing it,” you continued, “but you can also flick it with your tongue, breathe on it, or even suck on it gently.”
“With what must you flick it?” Lefroy asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“With your tongue, Sir,” you replied, your tone patient.
“How?” Hans pressed, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“The same way you’d French kiss,” you began, but Lefroy interrupted.
“Could you… demonstrate?” he asked, his voice trembling with a mix of embarrassment and desire.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you not know how to French kiss?”
“Well—yes, but—not a cunt,” he stammered.
“You use your tongue, sir, not just your lips,” you explained, licking your own lips to demonstrate.
“Like this?” he asked, his eyes locked on your mouth.
You leaned closer to Lefroy, your eyes locking with his. There was a flicker of hesitation in his gaze, but also a hunger—a curiosity that mirrored your own. You could feel the heat of his breath mingling with yours, the air between you charged with tension.
“Like this,” you murmured, your voice low and steady, as you closed the distance between you.
Your lips brushed his, softly at first, a tentative exploration. His mouth was warm, and you could taste the faint tang of liquor on his tongue. You lingered there for a moment, letting him adjust to the sensation, before gently pressing closer. Your hand found its way to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair, guiding him as you deepened the kiss.
Your tongue flicked against his, a slow, deliberate motion meant to teach rather than overwhelm. He responded in kind, his movements clumsy at first but growing more confident as he followed your lead. The kiss became a dance—a push and pull of lips and tongues, each movement deliberate and unhurried. You could feel the tension in his shoulders ease as he relaxed into it, his hands hesitating before they settled on your waist, pulling you closer.
The world around you seemed to fade—the noise of the bar, the chatter of patrons, the clinking of glasses—all of it dissolved into the background. There was only the heat of his mouth on yours, the way his breath hitched when you nipped lightly at his lower lip, the way his fingers tightened on your waist as if he never wanted to let go.
You pulled back slightly, your lips still brushing his as you spoke, your voice a whisper. “Do you understand now?”
He nodded, his eyes dark and unfocused, his breathing uneven. “I think so,” he managed, his voice rough.
But before he could say more, you kissed him again, this time with more urgency. Your tongue swept into his mouth, coaxing a low groan from him as he responded in kind. His hands slid up your back, pulling you flush against him, and for a moment, it was hard to remember this was meant to be a lesson. The kiss was fiery, consuming, and you could feel the heat of it spreading through your veins, igniting something deep within you.
When you finally broke away, both of you were breathless. Your cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and desire. You smirked, though your own heart was racing, and leaned back in your seat, putting a bit of distance between you.
“Well,” you said, your voice steady despite the warmth still lingering in your chest, “I trust you’ve learned something useful.”
Lefroy blinked, as if coming back to himself, and nodded slowly. “I… yes. Thank you.”
“Do I need to demonstrate for you as well?” you asked, turning to Hans.
“I believe I’ve learned enough by watching,” he replied, his voice tinged with amusement.
You smirked, closing your notebook and tucking it back into your waistband. “Then I suggest you both put that knowledge to good use.”
GOD I FUCKING MISSED WRITTING JANE AUSTEN STYLE OMG I've made so many Darcy fanfics on ao3 GOD FUCK YES It was supposed to be a one-shot. But it's a fucking series. how bout dat
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
I eagerly recommend reading this chapter with this song:
traitor by Olivia Rodrigo.
Spotify │ Youtube
Chapter 16
Hank tended to your wounds carefully, disinfecting the gashes on your face before administering a heavy dose of narcotics to numb the pain. The drugs hit you fast, making the world tilt and blur as you stumbled back toward the others.
You stumbled as you tried to rejoin the others, your body betraying you, the drugs pulling you under. You would have collapsed if not for Charles. His arms were around you before you even realized you were falling. His hand found yours, steady and sure, guiding you through the jet. You were too weak to resist, too far gone to question it.
His fingers intertwined with yours, claiming you in a moment where you had no strength to protest. You weren’t even fully conscious, yet he held you as if he had never let you go. A gentle press of his lips against your forehead—a touch so familiar it broke you.
“Goodnight, sleepyhead,” he murmured. The same words he used to say when things were simple, when you were his and he was yours.
For a moment, it felt like nothing had happened between you. The world faded into a hazy dream, and you were back in that place where everything was simple, where you could rest your head on his shoulder and feel safe.
Your cheeks flushed as you looked up at him, his long hair tangled with yours, his pale blue eyes searching yours as if trying to memorize you all over again. His lips barely curved into that faint, knowing smile you used to love. Had it really been so long? So long since you’d last been this close to him? His beard was unkempt, but it made him feel different, like he was both the man you remembered and someone new. Someone who was still, inexplicably, yours.
But then the tears came, blurring your vision. It wasn’t the wound that made you cry—it was your heart. It felt so small, so fragile, so utterly incapable of understanding why, after everything, you still wanted him. After all the pain he’d caused, it was him. It had always been him. Even after everything.
“I’m here,” Charles whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m still here, honey.”
His words cut through you, threading through your ribs and pulling tight around your lungs. As if he knew. As if he had always known.
Your fist clenched.
And you hit him.
Your hand collided with his chest. Once. Twice. Again and again. How could he? How could he do this to you? To both of you?
“How could you?” you choked out, your voice trembling. “How could you?”
Your punches landed again and again, but they grew weaker with each strike. Charles didn’t stop you. He just sat there, taking it, his expression a mix of guilt and sorrow. But the images burned in your mind—him, loving you, betraying you, missing you. Him, not moving on. Him, not searching for you.
You hated that you still cared. You hated that, even after everything, the thought of being with someone else felt wrong. You hated that hurting him hurt you just as much.
Your tears fell freely now, your punches fading into nothing as you finally gave in, resting your head against his chest. His heart was racing, but somehow, the sound of it calmed you. Why? Why did his presence still bring you peace? Why did his eyes still feel like home?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.
You wanted to scream. What did “sorry” even mean? But deep down, in some twisted way, you understood. How was Charles supposed to know? If someone had faked your mannerisms, your appearance, how could he have seen through it? How could he feel truly sorry?
It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. But what hurt most wasn’t that he had been tricked.
It was that he had let you go.
He didn’t fight for you. He didn’t push Logan away. He didn’t tell you the truth. He just… let you walk away.
“Why did you let me go?” you finally asked, your voice hoarse from crying.
Silence.
You looked up at him, his eyes red and filled with regret, but he couldn’t find the words.
“It took you two months,” you whispered, your lips trembling. “Two months to come to me. You traitor.”
You let out a humorless laugh, the sound hollow. “You promised me to never let me go, yet you did.”
The rage swallowed your sadness whole. It was easier that way. Those were the last words you remembered saying before the drugs pulled you under.
You woke up hours later, the faint sting on your cheek a reminder of the scar you now carried. You frowned, confused, as you glanced around. Logan was asleep, sitting far from you. But his hand wasn’t the one holding yours.
You turned your head.
Charles sitting beside you, staring out the window. As if he had been watching the world pass him by. As if he had been waiting. He noticed you waking up and turned to face you.
“Hey.” A soft smile. Tentative, almost shy.
You pulled your hand away from his, annoyed. “What are you doing here? Why am I next to you?”
Charles shrugged, his smile turning faintly mischievous. “The heart is a treacherous thing.”
You hated him. You hated him for saying that, for making you feel things you had no right to feel anymore.
You rolled your eyes and stood up, walking over to Logan. You sat down beside him, leaning into his warmth. Almost instinctively, even in his sleep, Logan’s head tilted to rest on yours.
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
Suddenly, Logan yanked you against his chest, his grip tight and unyielding. You froze, the sharp pain from your wound flaring as his shirt pressed against the gashes on your face. Blood soaked into the fabric, and you bit back a cry, your body trembling.
“Don’t fucking touch her, Charles,” Logan snarled, his voice low and dangerous, like the growl of an animal protecting its territory.
You recognized him instantly. This was the Logan who had stood by you, who had defended you when Charles betrayed you. But something was wrong. His pulse was erratic, his breathing uneven. He was unstable, disoriented, and the way he held you—so tightly, so desperately—was hurting you more than helping. The sting was unbearable, the pressure suffocating. Your breath hitched as tears threatened to spill.
It was as if the Logan you had gotten to now these past weeks and the man holding you now were two entirely different people.
“You’re hurting her,” Charles said, his voice strained with desperation as he saw you tremble in pain. “Let her go.”
But Logan didn’t budge. His claws were still out and his grip on you only tightened. He was lost in whatever mental shift had just happened, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and rage.
“I won’t!” Logan roared, his voice shaking the air around you.
Charles’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides as he tried to keep his composure. “It’s really simple, Logan. Let. Her. Go.”
Logan let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head to Charles. His voice was low, rough. “No, it’s really not,” he said, his tone cutting through the tension like a blade. “She gave you everything, Charles. Everything. And you threw it away like it meant nothing.”
Charles’s jaw tightened, his usual composure slipping for just a moment. He straightened, his voice calm but firm, as if trying to reclaim control of the conversation. “She’s mine, Logan. She always has been.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at his sides. “Yours?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You don’t get to call her that. Not after what you did. You had her trust, her loyalty, her… everything. And you blew it.” He took a step closer, his presence towering, his anger barely contained. “You don’t get to claim her now just because you need her. Not after you let her walk away.”
Charles’s expression hardened, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and something else—regret, maybe. “You don’t understand, Logan. What we had—what we have—is more than you could ever—”
“Don’t,” Logan interrupted, his voice a low growl. “Don’t you dare act like you’re the only one who cares about her.”
There was a pause, heavy and charged, as the two men stared each other down. Finally, Logan spoke again, his voice quieter but no less intense. “I’m not giving her up again, Charles. Not to you. Not to anyone. She’s been through enough because of you—”
Charles’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands tightening at his sides as he stepped closer, trying to force Logan to release you. “You don’t understand,” Charles said again, his voice desperate now, his eyes flickering to your pained expression. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose her.”
Logan’s expression darkened, his anger flaring for a moment before he shook his head. “Yeah, I do. And that’s why I’m not letting it happen again.”
“For goodness’ sake, look at her!” Charles cried, his voice breaking as he gestured to you. “Look what you did to her!”
Logan’s gaze dropped to you, his eyes widening as he took in the blood staining his shirt, the deep gashes on your face.
“No, no, no,” he muttered, his voice filled with horror. “What have I done? Where am I?”
He looked down at his claws dripping blood, then back at you, his expression a mix of confusion and guilt. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you stumbled toward Charles, your body shaking as muffled sobs escaped your lips.Your body trembled, the pain too much, the weight of it all crushing. Charles’ hand found your hair, soothing, grounding, trying to calm you as you clung to him. The pain was unbearable, and all you wanted was for the yelling to stop.
Logan stood frozen, his eyes darting between you and Charles.
“Logan, you came with us,” Charles said, his tone measured as he tried to explain. “You’ve been with us for the past few days. You… you traveled through time. Your future self came back.”
But Logan just shook his head, his confusion only growing. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re on acid,” he said bluntly. “Someone gave you really bad acid, yeah?”
Logan blinked, then nodded slowly, his breathing starting to even out. His claws fully retracted, and he looked at you, his expression filled with regret. “What—what happened to her?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What happened to you?” Charles shot back, his tone sharp but laced with concern.
“I was back,” Logan said, his voice distant. “Then I’m here. I traveled back to the future, and now I’m back. I—I, what did I do to her? Where’s Raven?”
Charles glanced at you, his worry deepening. “We need to go,” he said firmly. “I couldn’t care less about Raven or the plan right now.”
The tension in the room was suffocating, the weight of everything that had just happened pressing down on all of you. But as Charles held you close, his touch gentle and reassuring, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of safety—even if it was fleeting.
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
You sat alone in the plane, having woken up in a rush to choose your seat personally. Today, you couldn’t afford distractions. Not again. Your mind kept drifting back to last night—how Charles had treated you, how easily he’d unraveled you, how vulnerable you still were to him. It felt unfair, this magnetic pull he had over you, especially now, when you’d just started to move on. When you’d just started to see Logan in a different light. But you were choosing Logan, weren’t you? He was stable, reliable, someone you could count on. Right?
When the plane landed in Paris, Charles approached you, his expression unreadable but his voice tinged with concern.
“Would you rather stay out of the fight today?” he asked, his tone careful, almost hesitant.
“I’m fine, Charles,” you replied, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll be more careful. I don’t want to hurt anyone either.”
You assumed he was referring to the last fight—the first time you’d taken a life. But his next words caught you off guard.
“I’m not talking about that,” he said, pressing his lips together in clear frustration. “Look at me, y/n.”
Reluctantly, you turned to face him, your annoyance evident.
“We’re going to fight Raven today,” he said, his voice low but firm. “We have to stop her from doing something stupid. I don’t want you to get hurt—”
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that when you cheated,” you snapped, the words sharp and cutting.
Charles flinched, his jaw tightening as he bit back whatever retort was on the tip of his tongue. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do what you want, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving you seething. You wanted to scream, to punch something—anything—to release the anger bubbling inside you. You’d actually believed Raven was out of the picture, but now it was clear Charles had brought you here to help bring her back. You let out a bitter chuckle. How naive you’d been to think he’d changed.
When you reached the location, Logan was by your side, his eyes carefully scanning you. “Did he tell you why we’re here?” he asked, his voice calm but probing.
“Yeah,” you said, loud enough for Charles to hear. “But it doesn’t bother me. What’s done is done. Why dwell on the past?”
Logan smiled, a genuine, pleasant smile that made your chest feel lighter. “Speaking of the future—how about a date after this?”
You glanced at him, smiling despite yourself. “Finally. I was wondering when you’d ask.”
“Really?” he smirked, his tone teasing but kind.
You blushed, nodding. “Yeah.”
He took your hand in his, holding it firmly as you walked together. You noticed Charles’ expression falter for a brief moment, his composure slipping before he quickly masked it. But you didn’t care. Not anymore.
When you reached the destination, Erik made sure everyone entered quietly, avoiding detection. The tension in the air was palpable as you prepared for what was coming. Inside, chaos had already erupted. Congressmen were fleeing a room, and when you entered, Raven was standing on a table, a gun pointed at a man cornered between two walls.
What the hell was going on?
Erik called her name, but before she could react, a man tased her. Her body convulsed on the table, and for a brief moment, you couldn’t help but smirk. But the sight of her suffering quickly sobered you. You gave her just enough breath to ease her discomfort, though she was still writhing from the electrocution.
He yanked the taser away, sending it flying back at the man who’d thrown it.
Is he insane? You barely had time to react. The man gasped, his body jolting, his pulse erratic. Quickly you stabilized the man’s breathing to keep him alive until the situation calmed down. You focused on controlling his pulse, ensuring he wasn’t in too much pain. He was just doing his job, after all.
Then you saw Charles kneeling in front of Raven.
“Charles?” she gasped, her voice weak but filled with surprise.
You clenched your jaw, turning away, forcing yourself to look away. This wasn’t your problem. But then you saw him gently brushing her hair back, his touch tender, almost loving. You wanted to scream. You knew they were speaking, but you didn’t care to listen.
Logan’s voice pulled you back.
“Wait, y/n, I think the guy’s a mutant,” he said, his tone urgent.
You turned to him, confused. “What?”
“Look where the tasers are placed,” Logan said, his eyes narrowing. “He’s regenerating. Shit—”
Before he could finish, Logan slammed into a wall, his body going rigid. His eyes glazed over, and he looked like he was about to collapse.
“Logan?” you yelled, rushing to his side.
But before you could reach him, chaos erupted. Erik was holding a gun, and Raven was bolting toward a window. Erik fired, but Hank tackled him to the ground. You didn’t have time to process what was happening—Logan was your priority. He was passing out, his breathing shallow. You tried to help him, but your powers barely affected him. You cupped his face, his expression twisted in pain.
You knelt beside him, cradling his face. “Logan, come on, look at me.”
His breathing was shallow. His hands trembled. He was paralyzed, his eyes wide but unseeing. It looked like a panic attack, but you didn’t know how to help him. All you could do was stay close.
Then, without warning, his claws shot out.
Pain exploded across your cheek.
You gasped, stumbling back as blood spilled from the fresh wounds. Logan’s claws had grazed you. You moaned in pain, your hand flying to your cheek as blood dripped onto the floor. Your vision blurred.
“Charles—” your voice broke as you clutched your face, pain searing through you.
He was there in an instant, his face pale as he took in the damage. The marks from Logan’s claws were deep, cutting across your skin. Charles cursed under his breath, his hands trembling as he reached for you. You were crying now, the pain and shock overwhelming you.
“It’s okay,” he said, his voice strained but steady. “I’ve got you.”
But as he looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt. And in that moment, you hated him even more for making you feel like you still needed him.
The bottle stopped spinning. grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met.
Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy?
(This is an AU a year after the movie, he is still a loser)
TW! tease, first time, m!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.
Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6
Chapter 06
As he lay on top of you, his body pressing into yours, his arms caging you in, you couldn’t help but wonder—would he? Would he kiss you again with the same intensity, the same hunger that had left you breathless before? You didn’t want to push him, didn’t want to make him do something he wasn’t ready for, but the way his weight settled over you, the way his breath hitched against your neck, made it impossible to think clearly.
You shifted slightly, parting your legs a little more, as if that small movement could create some distance between you. But it didn’t. If anything, it only made you more aware of him—the heat of his body, the way his breath rushed unevenly against your skin.
He didn’t move, didn’t close the gap between your lips, so you did. Gently, almost hesitantly, you kissed him. It was soft, questioning, as if you were asking for permission. And it felt right. He felt right. But he didn’t kiss you back, not at first. Instead, there was a muffled sound, a low moan that vibrated against your lips as he whispered your name. You could feel his nervousness, the slight tremor in his pulse as you pulled away, your lips still tingling from the contact.
“Brian,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “do you want me on top?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately, his voice rough, almost desperate.
He shifted, rolling off you, and you moved to straddle him, your hips pressing into his, your cunt against his crotch in a way that made your breath catch. Was this too much? Were you moving too fast? The questions flickered in your mind, but the way he looked at you—his blue eyes dark with want—made it hard to care. Still, you needed to be sure.
“Whatever makes you uncomfortable, you have to tell me,” you said, smiling softly as you reached for the hem of your shirt. You pulled it over your head, letting it fall to the floor, revealing the red lingerie you’d chosen with this exact moment in mind. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”
Brian’s eyes widened, his throat working as he swallowed hard.
He didn’t say anything, but his hands found your waist, his fingers trembling slightly as they skimmed over your skin. It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real, as if he’d imagined this moment so many times that the reality of it was almost too much.
You smiled, teasing, as you played with the strap of your bra, watching his reaction.
Would you take it off? Would you leave it on?
The uncertainty seemed to drive him wild, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound breaking through the tension and replacing his nervousness with something warmer, something more intimate.
“Are you always such a tease?” he asked, his voice low, his lips curling into a smile that made your stomach flip.
“Have you ever removed a bra before?” you countered, your tone playful.
Brian’s smile widened, and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Actually, I have a party trick I could show you,” he said, his hands moving to your back, his fingers brushing against the clasp of your bra. “But you have to promise you won’t steal it.”
You laughed, but the sound caught in your throat as he sat up, his body shifting beneath you. The movement brought his face level with your chest, and you felt a shiver run through you as his fingers deftly unhooked your bra. It fell away, and his hands cupped your breasts, his touch tentative at first, as if he was waiting for your reaction.
You guided him, showing him how to touch you, how to make you gasp and arch into his hands. When his lips found your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin, you couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped you.
“Lick them, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need.
He obeyed, his mouth hot and wet against your skin, his hands exploring your body with a growing confidence that made your head spin. You kissed him again, your hips grinding against his erection, and the sound he made—low and desperate—sent a thrill through you.
Your fingers fumbled with the button of his trousers, slipping them off as you went. When your hand finally wrapped around his bare dick, he gasped, his eyes locking with yours. There was something raw in his expression, something that made your heart race. You stroked him slowly, teasingly, and he bit his lip, his hands gripping your hips as if he was holding himself back from taking control.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice breaking as you quickened your pace.
But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed to taste him, to feel him in your mouth. You shifted, moving off his lap, and for a moment, he looked confused, almost panicked. Then you asked, your voice husky with desire, and his eyes darkened. He nodded, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you took him into your mouth.
He laid his weight on his knees, your body on all fours as you started to lick his erection. It was hot, hard, and utterly intoxicating. You spit on him, your tongue tracing circles around his tip before taking him deeper, your lips wrapping around him as you swallowed him down. His hand tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you on as you moaned around him, the vibrations making him shudder. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and the way he watched you—like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—made your heart ache.
“Swallow or spit?” he asked, his voice strained, his body trembling with the effort to hold back.
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you took him deeper, your throat working around him as he came, his release filling your mouth. You swallowed, your eyes never leaving his, and when he finally pulled away, collapsing back onto the bed, you kissed him, your lips tasting of him, of the moment you’d shared.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you again, his touch tender.
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
You stayed at the X-Mansion for the night—it was too late to go home, and the thought of facing an empty house felt unbearable. Sleep didn’t come easily. You tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed, your mind racing with thoughts of what tomorrow might bring. Paris. Another fight. Another chance for things to go wrong. Eventually, you gave up on sleep and decided to take a walk, hoping the quiet halls of the mansion might calm your nerves.
You wandered aimlessly, the familiar corridors bringing back memories you’d tried to bury. Eventually, you found yourself in what was supposed to have been your room—the one Charles had promised you when you were meant to become a teacher. Your fingers trailed along the edge of the desk, the cool surface grounding you. The large windows at the back of the room reflected the moonlight, casting a soft glow over the smaller desks that had been pushed to the side, forgotten.
“Regretting leaving me?” Charles’s voice broke the silence, startling you. He stood in the doorway, a glass of liquor in his hand, his tone teasing but with an edge you couldn’t quite place.
“Funny,” you shot back, trying to mask your surprise. “Your mutation is about reading minds, yet you’re so bad at guessing. Are you drunk?”
He grinned, the faint smell of alcohol lingering around him. “That’s what I’m enjoying most about the cure.”
“At least you could take a shower, honey,” you said, the nickname slipping out before you could stop yourself. You felt your cheeks flush.
“Why would I,” he replied, stepping closer, “if you aren’t there to take it with me?”
You rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool. “Because, unfortunately, I get to smell it.”
He clicked his tongue, a playful smirk on his lips. “Gotcha!”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the desk. “Isn’t Professor Charles Xavier going to punish me for torturing his beloved Magneto?”
His smirk deepened. “Oh, I would. Trust me, I would.”
“Really?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow. “What’s stopping you?”
“Your clothes,” he said bluntly, his gaze locking onto yours.
You felt your face heat up again. He was standing just a foot away now, his presence overwhelming. This was how he used to be when you were together—confident, teasing, always knowing exactly what to say to unravel you. But back then, it was through telepathy. Now, it was just him—his disheveled hair, his piercing eyes, the way he looked at you like he could see straight through your defenses. It was maddening.
“You can flirt with Logan all you want,” he said, setting his glass down on the desk beside you and closing the distance even further, “but you can’t fool me, honey.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, as he leaned in, his body pressing you back against the desk. “Why did you do that to Erik?”
“That sounds more like you,” you said with a nervous laugh, trying to deflect. You didn’t want him to see how much his closeness affected you.
“Answer me,” he said, his tone firm now, leaving no room for evasion.
You hesitated. You didn’t want to admit it—not to him, not to yourself. That it had been about him. About the pain Erik had caused him. About the way Charles had been left broken, abandoned. You couldn’t say it out loud.
“I wish I could read your mind right now,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I bet you’re thinking about it.”
“I had a nightmare about him,” you lied, “And woke up with the sudden need to choke him.”
“The fact that I can’t read minds doesn’t make me stupid,” he said, rolling his eyes as he stepped even closer. You instinctively hopped up onto the desk to put some distance between you, but he didn’t stop. “Tell me.”
“Why should I?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound defiant.
“Do you remember when we went to Santa Monica?” he asked, his tone shifting, becoming almost nostalgic.
You did. It had been a year or so ago, just the two of you. A trip that was supposed to be about relaxation, but it had turned into something else entirely. You’d barely left the house, and when you did, it was only to keep fucking in the yacht. The memory was vivid, intoxicating.
“Remember how I had you on that silly little desk?” he continued, his voice dropping lower, his words deliberate. “How you moaned my name for more as I licked that sweet cunt of yours?”
Your breath hitched, the memory flooding back with startling clarity. His words were too much, too vivid, and you could feel yourself crumbling.
“That’s what I’ll do to you, honey,” he said, his hand brushing your cheek, confirming what he already knew. He pushed your hair back, his breath warm against your neck as he closed the distance you’d tried so hard to maintain. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Don’t honey me—” you whispered, your voice barely audible, your body betraying you as you leaned into his touch.
He licked your neck, slowly trailing up to your ear. “You started it first,” he murmured, his lips grazing your earlobe before he sucked gently.
You wanted him—God, you wanted him—but he had hurt you so much. You needed to make him stop, to pull yourself together, but he was too good at this. He knew you too well.
“This isn’t fun if I’m the only one talking,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his lips so close to yours.
You gasped, your stance slipping. “I heard he hurt you,” you confessed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.
“Jealous much?” he laughed, his smile hypnotic, his eyes locked on yours. “Did you think you were the only one who could hurt me?”
You were entranced, your gaze flickering to his lips, your body betraying you as you leaned in.
“And I was here, thinking that I was the possessive one in the relationship,” he teased, his hand sliding to your thigh, his touch sending shivers through you. “Come on, I know you want me.”
“I don’t,” you lied, but as you spoke, your lips brushed his.
“Your body says otherwise,” he said, his hand cupping your cheek as you leaned into his touch. “See, you and Logan are only a fling. You and I, we’re for life. So what if you have a silly little crush on him? You belong by my side, and you know that.”
His chest pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “You could take my breath away if you didn’t want me this close,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I’ve noticed how you look at me, how you still search for me, care for me. Do you know why Logan can’t soothe you like I do?”
“Why are you doing this to me?” you asked, your voice breaking, your vulnerability laid bare.
“I could ask you the same question,” he said, pulling back suddenly, his hands leaving your body. “Yet you won’t answer.”
You were left breathless, a mess of emotions, as he stepped away, a smirk playing on his lips. He had what he wanted—a confirmation. And you were left wondering how much of yourself you’d just given away.
me, a writer, at 3am: WHAT? I CANT FIND THE SPECIFIC FANFIC THAT I MADE UP IN MY MIND WITH A WHOLE PLOT AND ORIGINAL CHARACTERS??? WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE??? DO THEY EXPECT ME TO WRITE THE STORY I THOUGHT UP OF???
Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds.
But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two?
(This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)
Your head rested against Logan’s shoulder, your eyes still red and swollen from crying. A dull, relentless ache throbbed behind your temples, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. It felt like you had just crawled out of a nightmare.
The jet hummed around you, the sound steady but distant, like white noise.
Charles sat across the cabin, alone, staring out the window. Even from a distance, you could feel his presence as if he were right in front of you. There was a part of you that wanted to go to him, to talk to him, to hear what he had to say—even if it was harsh. You could see the weight of his thoughts in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his fingers twitched against his knee.
You knew he was holding back, biting his tongue. You could feel the weight of his disapproval, his disappointment in what you’d done. But deeper than that, you knew he blamed himself too. And that hurt more than anything.
The feelings you once had for him—those complicated, tangled emotions—had never really gone away. How could they? You watched him now, curious, almost studying him. IIt was the first time you’d been able to look at him from afar without the ghost of Raven’s grin haunting your thoughts. And there he was—the man who had once given you everything, only to have it all ripped away. Manipulated, betrayed, abandoned. He had lost you. He had lost his friends, his students, his school—his very identity. Even his mutation.
Would he have fallen so far if you had stayed by his side? If someone had fought for him?
You hated the way he reeked of whisky, the way he could look at you and make you believe, for one fleeting second, that he deserved another chance. And in all that hate, you hated how your heart still fluttered when his gaze met yours, how his jealousy made him irritable and unpredictable.
You hated that he still cared. Because it made you weak.
Suddenly, Erik rose from his seat, carrying a chessboard. He approached Charles with a smirk, his tone light but laced with challenge. “One for old times’ sake?”
Charles ignored him, his eyes fixed on the window.
“What happened to your powers?” Erik pressed, sitting down across from him.
Charles didn’t respond, his jaw tightening.
“How did you lose them?” Erik asked again, his voice sharper this time.
“The treatment for my legs,” Charles finally said, his voice tense. “It affects my DNA.”
Your stomach dropped. Had he really lost his legs? Logan was right—Erik had hurt Charles that badly. A surge of anger burned through you.
“You gave up your powers… so you could walk?” Erik asked, his tone incredulous.
Charles turned to him slowly, his eyes cold. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose a part of yourself.”
“I’ve lost my fair share,” Erik shot back.
“And you think that justifies what you’ve done?” Charles’s voice was icy, his stare piercing.
Erik’s expression hardened. “You have no idea what I’ve done.”
“I know you put me in that chair,” Charles snapped, his voice rising. “I know you took the things that meant the most to me—”
“Well, maybe you should’ve fought harder for them,” Erik said, his words cutting and devoid of compassion.
“You want a fight, Erik? I’ll give you a fight—” Charles said, his voice trembling with rage. It was the first time you’d seen him like this—unhinged, furious, raw.
“Sit down,” Logan growled, his voice low but commanding.
“No, let him come,” Erik taunted as Charles swung at him.
Your eyes widened in shock. Charles threw punch after punch, his movements fueled by years of pent-up anger and pain.
“You think you’re the only one with pain and anger? You think you’re the only one who’s suffered?” Charles shouted, grabbing Erik by the collar and slamming him against the wall.
“I said SIT DOWN!” Logan roared, his voice shaking the cabin.
The metal of the plane began to creak and groan, the structure destabilizing as Erik’s powers reacted to his emotions.
“Come on, let’s see what you can do without your powers,” Erik sneered, shoving Charles away.
“Guys! You’re messing up my aerodynamics!” Hank yelled from the cockpit, his voice panicked.
Charles and Erik continued to wrestle, their fight sending the plane into erratic movements. Then you saw Charles—his body slammed onto a table, momentarily dazed. He wasn’t helpless, but seeing him like this, so desperate and exposed, made your chest ache. You were angry too—angry at Erik for hurting the man you once loved, for abandoning him when he needed someone most.
Your gaze flicked to Erik, the man who had torn Charles apart. Who had abandoned him when he needed him most. Your lips curled. A single thought whispered through your mind—
Make him suffer.
And Erik felt it. The plane lurched violently, and you realized it wasn’t just Erik’s powers causing the chaos. It was you.
You watched as Erik’s breath hitched, his face reddening as he struggled for air. You smirked, reveling in the control, in the power. You gave him just enough oxygen to keep him conscious, just enough to hear him gasp and pant, his neck straining, veins bulging. He was vulnerable, and you enjoyed every second of it. This was for Charles, but it was also for you.
For your own satisfaction.
He was helpless. And it felt—
Good.
You leaned in, savoring the sight. His red-rimmed eyes locked onto yours, pleading, furious, desperate. You bit your lip, amusement flickering through your chest.
“Stop! Y/N, whatever you’re doing, stop!” Logan’s voice cut through your haze as he shook you roughly.
But you didn’t. You kept your gaze on Erik, watching as his body wavered, the last vestiges of strength draining from him—tortured, breathless. Your grin widened.
Then Charles was there, pulling you back.
His hands were firm, his expression a mix of concern and care. But it was his eyes—those pale blue eyes—that snapped you back to reality. You released Erik, the rush of power fading as quickly as it had come.
You were in Logan’s arms now, but your gaze was fixed on Charles. His eyes held you there, grounding you, pulling you back from the edge.
