How about something for a verse we havent had in a while (if you want to of course, otherwise something for Erik?) Uhhhh maybe something for secret!reader jason verse?? Or whatever you have inspiration for :)
This is what I can see in my head so... here we go.
You knew the dance. The steps were simple. They move forward and you move back. If you toe the line and keep your head down, no one looks at you. If you can keep from being perceived, you're safe.
But you see everything.
As soon as you touch an object, you can know what has happened to it or will happen to it. Gloves help. Sleeves help.
But... it's a crime family. They use you to touch things. To know if the glass will break. If a gun will misfire. If a guy will rat them out to the cops.
Keeping your arms around yourself is safest. Rubbing the patches on your denim jacket. The ones you stole laughing with your friends, the sun shining on your face as you ran up the sidewalk. It's not real, the pictures- and as long as you don't look forward; to know what else happens it's okay.
Because what happens later- that... well. If you look too far forward you're dead.
___________________
Pages turned to ash in the flames curling like rose petals. And you fed more pages into the grate one by one, ignoring the brooding man behind you and the smell of cigar smoke.
"You good, kid?"
"Just cleaning house," you answer, not turning. Ignoring the feel of the flames as you picked up the notebooks to tear them apart. Behind you, you could hear him take a seat and rolled your eyes.
"Gettin' late-"
"Figured if I did this earlier Jubilee and Kitty would be down here tryin' to make s'mores on it," you snort. "Didn't really want to have to explain THAT."
"Fair enough," Logan said.
You could feel him sizing you up. And you knew he had... questions. How a professor that was in the same class as Scott and Jean know how to pick locks and hotwire cars? Why's Charles seem to defer to you when it came to things that were 'criminal' in nature? And how the living hell did you become a teacher with a rap sheet? But you don't know if you have the patience to answer right now.
Writing was supposed to be theraputic. To give you a place to get it all out. Storm told you to just write it all out but... it felt too much like having a written confession. Like it was just all laid out for the cops and waiting.
So you fed the last of the pages to the flames and watched them catch. And that was... Somehow more satisfying.
"Love notes?" Logan scoffed, teasing.
"Sure," you shrug, carefully scooping up scraps of paper from the spirals and the metal that wouldn't burn into the wastebasket.
"It's either that or bad poetry-"
"Not really a poem kind of girl, Logan," you tell him, getting to your feet. "Tequilla is good or it isn't- why do I need to 60 words to say it?"
Logan took a drag on his cigar and regarded you, smirking, "Sometimes it's really fucking good tequila."