#colossus x reader

The bright sun above paints Piotr’s face in perfect shades of gold, reflecting off his canvas and back onto his skin. It filters through his fingers, clasped tightly around the paintbrush, and turns his dark hair reddish.

You tighten your own grip on your brush, resisting the urge to reach out and card your fingers through his hair. He’s always handsome, but under the late afternoon sun, he looks ethereal. God-like.

The muscles in his arm rib and flex while he moves his arm along the canvas, each stroke smooth and perfect. He hums to himself while he paints, some quiet song you don’t quite recognize but wish you could listen to forever.

Sitting outside the X-Mansion, the summer air rustling over your skin, you find yourself wanting to live in this moment for the rest of your life.

You turn back to your own canvas, still blank save for the background you’d started painting. You swirl your brush around in your cup of water, wracking your brain for something to paint, if only so you don’t get caught staring at your boyfriend like a creep.

You’re so caught up in your own thoughts that you don’t even notice him staring at you until he speaks.

“What are you thinking about?”

You flinch slightly and flash him a nervous smile. “Trying to find something to paint.”

He nods, tapping his chin the way he does sometimes when he’s deep in thought. It’s something you’ve always found cute, even before you started dating. One of his many little habits that he doesn’t even know he does.

“What are you painting?” You lean over slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his canvas.

He shuffles slightly, blocking the view with his broad shoulders. “It’s a surprise.”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “Please?”

He smiles guiltily, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s always had a hard time saying no to you, the very word feeling heavy and awkward in his mouth.

You giggle slightly, shaking your head. “It’s fine, Petey.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, going back to painting on his own canvas. Despite yourself, you can’t look away from him, from the way the light paints him perfectly, the way he slightly sticks his tongue out in concentration.

You blink, an idea finally coming over you. You turn back to your canvas, dipping your brush in the paint and finally making a stroke. And then another, and then another.

The sun sinks lower on the horizon, the warm air fading to a cooler breeze as the sky darkens around you, and still, the two of you paint. You’re almost done when a particularly cold breeze washes over you, forcing a shiver up your spine.

Piotr’s eyes snap to you, concern furrowed in his brow. “You’re cold,” he frowns.

“It’s fine.”

He rises from his chair, coming to stand behind you and draping an arm across either shoulder. His large body engulfs you, skin warming yours wherever it makes contact. He raises a brow, cocking his head to the side as he looks at your painting. 

“Is that…me?”

You look at him over your shoulder, smiling sheepishly. “Mhm. Do you like it?”

He reaches out a hand, thick fingers hovering over the freshly painted brushstrokes. He laughs slightly, “it’s wonderful.”

“Really?”

He nods, still chuckling to himself.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Come look,” he says, scooping you up from the stool you’ve been sitting on for hours. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, body relaxing into his as he lifts you onto his own stool, sitting you directly in front of his painting. You blink. It’s a beautiful rendition of you, sitting on your stool, staring off into your canvas.

You giggle, “you painted me?”

The thought of the two of you, sitting directly next to each other and painting each other without knowing, only makes your heart swell with joy. He really is your perfect match.

He hums, “I had to, you’re so beautiful.”

You cup his jaw, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. He follows your lead, moving his lips along yours. Beneath the setting sun, in the warmth of his arms, there really is no place you’d rather be.

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Yeah. Attentive. That’s what he tells himself at least. After all, look where it’s gotten you. All wonderful progress, a greater step taken by the day. You were unrecognizable from the broken little body he’d hauled from that facility so many weeks ago. If only you could see that, too. 

The carpet swallows the weight of him as he silently treks up the stairs, around the bend, and routes himself to the hallway his room belonged to. This is his second trip now, more monitor than tenant, only just then shaking off the strange nag to double check the integrity of the night before he truly settled down. All the same as the first, the mansion is quiet. And now that he’s right and satisfied with that answer, there’s a steaming cup of tea on his nightstand, a book left open waiting to be read. 

You accompany him every step he takes, eating up the vacant space of his mind. Mostly this morning. A smile over your face, the first time your voice had left you without a shake to the tone. There was a real you parting through all that thick, fearful smog. A blurry reflection in the water that seemed to grow clearer by the day. 

Lost in thought, the hallway dark with the lateness of the night, he almost missed the fracture of a shadow among the darkness amidst the low lights. He freezes, but he knows who it is before the alarm could truly strike him.

You’re standing in front of his room. Not moving, facing the tall wooden door like you could somehow see through it. For a moment, he almost wonders if you can. X-ray vision wouldn’t be so uncommon. The doors cracked open just a fraction, but you don’t attempt to open it. From here he can’t see your expression, but something in your posture feels… Vulnerable. And just as he’s about to call out to you, worried perhaps something is wrong, he watches you lift your right arm. It hushes him. Balling your hand into a fist, hovering mere inches before the thick wood, unmoving once more. 

Though you make no sound, Piotr senses it anyway. A cry for attention. 

You were coming to visit him. 

But the tightness of your fist never raps away at his door. You don’t quite manage to close the gap. Hesitation sticks around for far too long and he swears he could see the internal battle, the way you try to work through all the chaos inhibiting that mind of yours. 

Now, Piotr is no stranger to your night explorations. He lets you think you’re sneaky. Lets you meander about under the cover of dim lamps and the comfortable blanket of silence. You scamper the night away like a mouse, finding all the cracks and crevices, all the places you could see yourself trusting enough to relax in. He hears it- he swears he can feel it- like somehow the mansion was a part of him, breathing as one, feeling as one. 

Of course, naturally, he wished you would sleep better. It was the most important factor for healing after all. That and making sure you met all your daily nutrition, but he digresses. You were doing well enough, and you were eating hearty breakfasts and protein rich dinners. Compared to when you’d first arrived with near narcoleptic sleeping patterns, this was just a part of the journey, he was sure.

There had been an undeniable rush of excitement that ran through him the first night you found the courage to saunter out of your room. So much so, that he abandoned his better senses and left his book behind to greet you at the end of the stairway. Every intention within him had been to encourage you. A tour of the mansion, maybe. But the moment he threw his door open he was met with the immediate and brutal reality that was you hauling ass back to your room so quickly that all that was left of your trail were the echoes of your footsteps. 

So, no tour. And the next night he heard you toeing your way about, he kept himself tucked in bed. Really, even the knowledge that you’d grown comfortable enough to even want to explore was enough for him to be satisfied. The tour could always come later. You were making wonderful progress- no reason to ruin that now. No matter how much he anticipated it. 

Now, at least, even though you remained glued to the sidelines, you were present. 

Tonight throws him off, though. Tonight you sought him out entirely out of your own accord even when you lacked the true strength to fulfill the deed. You reel back, ready to knock, and Piotr’s heart does an involuntary flip. All the times you’d gone out of your avoid him and yet here you were. For a moment he waits to hear the soft sound of your knuckles against the door, even disappointed that he wasn’t within his room to answer you, but the sound never comes. 

And then your hand falls limp to your side, unballing, loose where it hangs. Shame, or guilt, becomes a palpable pressure that weighs on your shoulders as they slump down. He doesn’t need to see your face to see the drawn lines, the downcast expression. You merely stare down at your feet before taking a meager step away. 

Ah. It all made sense now. That nagging, incessant urge to double check what he’d already routinely accomplished- the universe needed him to see this moment. Bear witness to the fact that you were moving far further than he’d believed whether he was there to see it or not. You were flourishing right before his eyes, yes, the universe surely had wanted him to see this, to see you, and appreciate all that had come to pass. To feel the fruits of his and your labors. A gift. A reminder. 

The brief thought crosses him that this may not be the first time. He wonders how many times you’ve been out here like this, standing before his rooms, unable to bring yourself to just bridge that divide. The amount of times you’d let your eyes fall to the rugged floor as you crept back to your room, leaving no trace, more ghost than person.

Piotr can’t let this moment go to waste. He swallows once, evens his voice, and calls out to you.

“Good evening.”

You nearly jump clean out from your skin. He forgives it, doesn’t take it personally either when your large doe-like eyes swallow him whole. Moonlight pours in from the window, the outline of you nearly glowing, expression reading nothing but pure bewilderment. He even forgives it when you can’t seem to gather yourself enough to respond. Instead you merely gape at him much like a child caught red-handed. 

One careful, tentative step forward, Piotr wishes to close the divide. Shockingly, you don’t take that instinctual step back. 

“Cannot sleep?” He asks, voice carrying through the gap while you wring your fingers together in front of you. Your gaze falls to the floor. Then, in some sort of haphazard shrug, your shoulders languidly rise and fall sluggishly. 

Now there’s a line to toe. On one hand he could send you back to the safety of your room. You’d meander away and shut yourself out, stay up til the sun breached horizon. On the other hand, and it's a risky hand… 

Piotr takes a leap of faith he hopes you’re prepared for. Pushes just a bit- after all, he liked to think he had a knack for these types of things, knowing when the right moment to nudge someone in the right direction. The idea was that should he be the hand that extends, you’d take it, act on your wants, courage or not. So he approaches you, this tiny little thing damn near statue-still before him, and stops just before you. You don’t shy away. He takes that inch and runs for the mile. 

Piotr reaches over your head and pushes his door open. 

“I can stay up with you.” He starts, gentle as a breeze. “You may come in, if you need.”

In total honesty, there’s a nagging suspension that you’d pivot on your heel and dash back to your room. That or shrug him away, opt instead to exploring the mansion all in your lonesome. Without waiting for an answer, he keeps his cool, lets the ball roll through your court as he passes you by and strides inside. The tea waiting for him is still, in fact, steaming. It’s a beautiful sight. His book calls to him like a spectre in the night, laying open on his comforter. 

All forgotten when he hears the quiet pitter patter of your feet following him in. 

Oh, god, how it makes him feel a million shades of giddy. How every agonizing stretch of silence, of each moment rejected, came to fruition and he only hardly found the will to mask the joy within that calm, all-knowing exterior. Casually he sinks into one of the two arms chairs facing the massive window, the only divider a quaint table. Over his shoulder he notes you just… Waiting. Standing there awkwardly half taking in the contents of his room and half unsure of what to do with yourself now that you’ve taken this plunge. 

If there’s one thing that Piotr’s noticed, it’s that the more you opened up, the more you seemed to become this amalgamation of gauche and anticipation. Every emotion a broadcast- like someone who never learned the art of a facade. 

You look almost comically small in his room. You look uncomfortable. Vulnerable, and for a brief second, Piotr thinks maybe this had been a bad call. Whilst you busy yourself wringing your hands and slouching your shoulder to fold in on your own frame, he thinks perhaps he’d pushed you a bit too far from the island. Or, god forbid, took advantage of your uncertainty. 

Straightening his back, he calls out to you from his spot when you seem to intentionally refuse to meet his gaze.

“Would you like to sit?”

The steps to the chair across from him are few, but you make the space feel as though it's a mile. Every inch forward is tentative. Every breath is guarded, always as though you're waiting to turn tail and run at any given moment. Regardless, you make it, and you too let yourself curl up in the chair all shifty-eyed and cautious. Knee’s hiked up to your chest, chin planted firm over the caps, doing all you physically can to block yourself in. Or, block Piotr out. 

It strikes him that this may have cost him something. That if you had followed him simply because you felt like you had to, or out of fear, passivity. This could certainly come with repercussions. Hindsight is a strange thing. Makes him second guess himself, the monument of a man he is. Maybe the right thing to do would have been to let you go along with your night, even if it meant sinking further into your isolation. Let you come to him (as if you hadn’t already) and ask for more. 

Quote literally anything else except invite you in your moment of weakness into his damn bedroom. 

He almost throws the whole moment away and admits he’d jumped the gun. But then, you sigh deep and long. Chest rising, falling, slow and sure as the sound evens out. Tension huffs out from your shoulders. Eyes fall half lidded, always finding the window. 

Relief.

A winding smile forms over Piotr’s lips. It looks good on you- relaxation- even if you never truly allowed yourself the means to really get comfortable. A dozen times over he’d seen this process from start to finish, but somehow here, with you, it felt different. Felt pure. Right. 

“What troubles you?” He asks, voice carrying through the silence, far too casual for someone who was so familiar to the onslaught of struggles you’d been battling since day one. And though he expects silence, you surprise him all over again, speaking for the second time today, albeit plain, and timid. 

“Can’t sleep.” 

“Why is that?”

A slow, languid shrug. Then hardly audible, you murmur, “...Worried.”

“You are worried about something?” Of course you are. He isn’t a fool- of course you’re still riding the fence stuck somewhere between distrust and foolish hope, desperate to believe this was all real. Smart enough to know it may not be. It seems your eyes grow further away by the second as you stare outside.

Still though, you answer. “Yeah.”

“What worries you?”

Another empty shrug. 

It’s like pulling teeth, trying to gather answers from you that aren’t these vague motions or one-word responses. Even so, this is good. Piotr reminds himself of that every time frustration knocks at the door. This is great, actually, and far more than he initially believed he’d get. Presence alone had been the goal which you met with flying colors. 

After all, you’d confided in him. Talked to him in unpracticed sentences, remembering what it was like to hold a conversion. So he pulls those teeth one by one and leans back in his chair, following your line of sight to the starry sky. A thousand questions beg to be answered- most notably the glaring obvious: what powers do you possess? 

He refrains. He has to. That sort of question would have to come at a later time. For now he pulls another tooth. 

“What is most worrying?” 

Your voice is farther away now. Disconnected. Your expression matches, void of anything specific beyond true neutrality. “Going back.” 

That bothers Piotr. Thick brows pull together in a tight knit, he can’t stop himself from cocking his head. “You are not going back.”

“...None of this feels real.”

“It is very real.” 

“...”

Piotr notes that you’re still breathing good and slow, even despite your concerns. He sighs. “You must not live in past. You are here, now. Safe.”

It doesn't comfort you. But, it draws you in. Quick as it may, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, you turn to find his glance and you… You’re there. Right there, focused, searching for the cracks on his facade. Crickets chirp. The moon and stars spark with twinkling light. There is no hesitation to be found in Piotr words, nor his resolve, even when he can physically feel you mapping him out. He lets you, hopes that you’ll finally realize there is no end game. 

Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t. 

Regardless, you turn your attention back to the outside world. You watch the trees, the breeze, for the thousandth time. Another long, drawn breath escapes you and carries away most of the tensions with it. 

Piotr has a selfish thought, then, because he is human after all. He thinks to himself, you are so beautiful, like this. 

But then he shakes those pestering thoughts away before they get the chance to truly take root. Only to rear their heads a moment later as you settle even further into the chair, letting your legs fall to the side. Then, as if kissed by an angel, your eyes slip shut. 

It takes all but a few minutes for you to doze off into a gentle slumber. In a single moment, he rejoices in the notion that you’ve finally accepted him. Deemed him safe, fit to watch over, to share your fears and uncertainties with. The ground beneath your unsteady feet. There, in the quiet, he makes your peace his own. The weight of what may be the world slips from his tired shoulders. Though his tea grows cold, the twirl of steam long since diminished, he hardly minds. 

For a long while, Piotr stays just like that. The moon glides over the long, drawn sky, hiding in the few pockets of clouds rolling by. A part of him wishes this moment could linger forever, but time is hardly understanding, and when he can no longer spare anymore slumber, he brings himself to his feet. You are impossibly small, and curled into the crook of the chair. Picking you up into his arms is like handling the finest of china, slipping one arm under your upper back and the other below the bend of your knees. Although he’d like to credit himself a gentle handler, he’s almost sure that the reason you do not stir is because you haven't slept quite this deeply in some time now. Every breath is full, every exhale is slow.

Your room welcomes you like an old friend. As he lays you upon the nest of blankets, he thinks of the first time he’d carried you, this frightened, beaten thing too afraid to even breathe properly in his presence. 

Now sleep murmurs from your lips, and you subconsciously curl into the softness of the sheets. Now, as he stands in the doorway and glances over his shoulder one final time, you are bathed in beautiful moonlight. He sees it- a glimpse of the future. A life you deserved so close within reach, the person he knew you could become. 

Selfish thoughts return. They demand, even, until Piotr forces himself out into the hall and shuts the door behind him. 

--

The next morning, Piotr wakes with the full moon just before dawn. There’s no profound reason he rises, just simply stares up at the ceiling in darkness until he forfeits the remainder of his slumber. 5 AM, the digital clock reads. That cold cup of earl grey stares back as he sits, swings his feet around the bed. An early start to his day could do him well, he thinks, and a nice hot shower confirms it in the end. 

Downstairs, breaching the kitchen and pouring the contents of the cup down the drain, he lingers in the soft flicker of a lamp resting beside him on the counter. He gazes out the massive window overlooking the long, green yard. Watches the sky turn from deep black into the faintest blue. At first, the only movement to really capture his attention is the intricate dance of fireflies- but then, off to the far, far right towards the grand doors of the mansion, he notices movement. 

There you are. 

You’re simply standing there at the front steps, face tilted up towards the sky.

Everything seems to seize up all at once. A moment captured in a bottle as he realizes the doors had certainly been shut as he may his way to the kitchen. Something coils in his lower belly, a feeling he truly can’t stand. Uncertainty. 

How long have you been out here, like this? When you had been sleeping so soundlessly not mere hours ago? Lingering out in the chill of night, feeling the cold over the skin and through your hair. 

Piotr runs through your conversations. He combs every word and peeks between the lines. Had it changed something within you? Or had you simply realized this was not the place you’d want to call home? A part of him worries you’d thought you were better off alone, trusting no one other than your own self. 

A part of him could not blame you for such a thing. Months of sleeping between blinks, months of watching you struggle to even allow yourself to breathe properly. The potential was there and sure, you were coming around by the very day, but Piotr would be lying to himself to say he didn’t feel the draw. This incessant pull you fought time and time again. 

If you truly wanted away from all this, from him, he would let you, because it’s your life. Because he could not force this on you. 

Because you were not his prisoner. 

Doesn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction, though. Nor does it ease the twist in his stomach as you take a tentative step forward to the second step, and then the third. 

He tells himself to trust this. To trust you. 

But the faucet continued to run until water has gathered at the rim of the cup and spills around his hand like a waterfall. 

The universe rewards his patience yet again. With a broad yawn, you stretch high and wide, and then paw tired from the corners of your eyes. You walk right back into the mansion. Heavy doors open, close, and Piotr scrambles to turn off the running water in time to watch you patter into the kitchen. 

He witnesses the exact moment you realize he’s there. He witnesses the freeze, the bristle, your doe-like eyes blinking up at him from the illuminated entrance. For a long couple seconds neither of you speak. For the first time, Piotr can not conjure up anything beyond silence. 

“Oh,” you murmur, wringing your fingers together. “...Sorry.” 

The trance breaks. Piotr turns, sets his cup in the sink. “Fresh air is good for you.”

“For waking you up.” 

That actually makes him laugh. A deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as he opens the fridge and rummanages through. “You did not wake me.”

“Then… I’m sorry for keeping you up last night.”

“That I forgive.” He drags out his usual suspects: eggs, bacon, bread. 

He can feel you standing there in the doorway while he cooks, unsure what to do with yourself, lingering like a ghost caught in the frame. Still though, he’s pleased as punch you haven't left. He glances over his shoulder and motions for you to sit at the table, and of course, you hesitate. A quick flicker of your eyes he followed to the table then back up to his own. Then you shuffle forwards and hop into the seat on the far edge. 

It’s impossible not to smile as he works. He can hear the weight of the seat shift under you as you get comfortable, hear the sound of your boney elbows knocking against the wood of the table whilst you lean forward. A palpable silence mingles with the sizzle of bacon, but it’s hardly uncomfortable. He doesn’t ask if you’d like a plate, just simply sets it down in front of you and watches the way you pick at it.

If the chair groaned under the weight of you, his chair damn near screamed under the weight of him. Old wood supporting him, the legs creaking to accommodate. He clears nearly half his plate before you’ve even started to pick away at your eggs. He hates to nag, but…

“You are not hungry?”

“I am.” A soft pause, the faintest sound of your fork poking the plate. Every word that leaves you is guarded, low. Monotone even when he knows you’re feeling anything but. “...Thanks for making this for me.”

Piotr nods and smiles. Finally, as if the acknowledgement had been the permission you seeked, you pluck a long strip of bacon and pop it into your mouth. Slow, careful, you almost seem to have to force it down. 

“If you are not tired, I can show you the rest of the mansion.” It’s a simple offer, one you could easily refuse. You blink up at him, then gaze back down at your meal. He swallows, then adds, “It would be good for you.”

“Why.” 

It catches him off guard, and he leans back in his seat. “You are one of us. One of many. You should be familiar with your home.”

Home makes your expression deepen just enough to notice. The lines settle, not quite a frown, nowhere near a smile. Sometimes it kills him in a way, watching you refuse the extending branch. Sometimes he wants to reach out and take you by the shoulders, shake out all those doubts and nightmares until you’re empty. 

He sighs, leans back in his chair and shakes his head. 

“You must let this pain, this… Fear, go. I know you are afraid. You think this is set-up, or this is not real. When I first became X-Man, I was afraid also.” You perk at his words, eyes widening just a fraction. “Even I was afraid. Even when I am made of steel, and can take hit, I was afraid. Trust is a frightening thing, yes?”

Your gaze falling downwards is the only confirmation he needs. 

“But listen to me. You are strong. Even stronger than you realize. You are not broken thing you think you are. And I- We, are not enemy you think we are.” Slowly, he leans back towards you. “You must stop telling yourself that you are alone.”

For a moment he thinks you may be ignoring him. Nothing but an empty stare into the food growing colder by the second. But then, he sees how the light reflects in the whites of your eyes. How your nose grows tinted red, how your lower lip quivers. It takes everything in you to swallow down the boulder in your throat, but you do. And you nod once. Twice. 

Piotr lets you gather yourself. When you’re whole again, you blink away the wetness of your lashes and stare up at him. 

“You can, uh…” Another hard swallow as you speak, voice warped with the strain. “You can show me around. After I eat.”

“Good,” He breathes. “Good.”

When you take another bite, it isn’t missed on him how you don’t hesitate. You sink your teeth into your toast and chew like it’s your last chance. Real hunger cries with demands and finally you indulge. Every nibble, every swallow, is success in his eyes. 

Soon the rest of the house would rise with the morning sun and the halls would light to life. He would show you the rooms you’d already explored, this time washed in light, and you would act as though it was the first time. But at this moment he too lets himself indulge. 

The day you stopped fighting them, it got easier, you found. To become numb became the most comforting thing you’d ever known. Even when they strapped you down, filled IV’s dug snug into your veins with a thousand different concoctions. Even when they’d throw you into the bellows of metal darkness with nothing but your empty thoughts and spray you down with a hose harsh enough to nearly skin you alive right there. But you endured. You laid there and let them move and strip and build and destroy you. Sometimes in that order- sometimes not. 

So numb, in fact, and so perfectly docile that you hardly realized it at all when you were enveloped into arms of metal and carried away. 

And yet, waking up to nothing was somehow far more terrifying than back in the lab. The silence felt uncanny. Smothering, even. You waited with baited breath for it to start. To feel the zap of a prong, or the long drag of a needle searching for a vein. But it never came, and that was the worst torture of all, because you knew deep in your heart it would eventually. When was the question- and whenever it came, you would be ready. 

Even though the bed was comfortable, and the sun peeked in through the drawn curtains, you knew it would come. By the time you really started taking in the homely environment, the weary dread only grew. Laughter echoed down the halls and seeped from under the crack of the door. The scent of food always lingered either from somewhere deeper within the facility or from the nightstand. But you wouldn’t be fooled. 

A man larger than life found his way into the room you were kept in like clockwork, usually the harbinger of said food. He’d stay around only long enough to offer faux kind words of encouragement before leaving you to yourself. Always so careful, and sweet, and never once demanding. The perfect hand that fed. 

It was horrifying. Every time he’d step into the room, ducking under the frame not built to accommodate the sheer size of him, you thought to yourself, today is the day. Today would be the day it all makes sense, and whatever test this was would have run its course and you’d be crammed back into somewhere familiar. 

Sleep felt expensive- like when you’d crack your eyes open, you’d be somewhere entirely new all over again. Safety felt downright impossible. You had to be ready to endure it all again. Survive. But the man… He never even touched you. Hardly even breathed as he reared close and set the plate down on your nightstand. He came day after day, night after night, like you were an old friend. Or a pet, maybe. Something to take care of or study.

But why? What could you possibly offer that he couldn’t just take himself?

All the time you spent before longing to escape, longing for better, only to find yourself truly afraid of the unknown. The possibilities were endless. And worst of all, days later, you were slowly getting used to the nothingness. Sight, feel, scent, it was all coming back to you. Taking note of your environment, admiring the architecture, fuck, this bed alone was enough to make you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Gratitude. Blessed be, to feel your weight shift over something so perfectly warm. To breathe in and smell food, to drink from a cup by choice. 

It reminded you just how terrible it was going to be when this all fell away to shit. 

You were out of your element, nearly out of your mind. Weaker than you’d ever felt in your life. A part of you wanted- no, hoped that you’d die there in that room before it could be taken from you. Die staring up at the sun you’d missed so dearly, the last beautiful thing you’d ever known, feeling warmth on your skin and watching the wind run through the leaves like fingers through hair. 

You almost did die, you think. The man saw it too. Although you weren’t sure just how long it had been, you could hear and feel his concerns rising. A slight uptick to the octave of his voice. A bit more pleading, a touch more exasperated. 

It has been days, he’d said, far more forlorn that you’d heard thus far. You must eat something. 

A long, slow sigh of defeat when you hardly even stirred. The plate he sets down on the table is the same as every day before, eggs and toast, a glass of water. And when he left you to yourself, you couldn’t help but wonder just why he cared so much. To try and keep you kicking like this, surely there was something you were necessary for, but for what you could not even hope to guess. All morning you mulled it over, asking a million questions, thinking harder than you had for years. It was like the gears started moving again, cobwebs and dust included. 

You aren’t sure what changed that morning. But something did. 

Breakfast smelled so fucking good. Downright irresistible. You couldn’t recall a time you felt real hunger in your belly but there it was, churning and begging and longing for a bite. Just one. You drank the glass water down to nothing, but found yourself unsatisfied. You plucked the toast from the plate and nibbled at the rigid edge, but you wanted more. More, more, more. Your stomach cried something awful and demanding and before you knew it you were sinking your teeth into anything they could find. Bread, eggs, fuck, you could eat the the entire plate, you think. It was agony, too, retching food down your throat that had become a stranger to solids, but you mawed it down anyways even when your defenses rose in tandem with the primal hunger.

This is how they get you, they cried, muffled by the wonderful mundanity of breakfast. This is how it happens. 

But you couldn’t help yourself. You emptied that plate into the bellows of your body and it felt good. To feel full, warmed from the inside out and tired, it was like a dream. Too good to be true. Especially so when you carefully set the plate back down onto the nightstand and slinked back into the blankets. Real blankets, and clean sheets, and then you pulled the curtains back and watched birds gather at the front lawn. 

Oh, how beautiful, to witness clouds lazily drag through the broad blue sky. 

You thought to yourself that maybe you did die. Maybe this was heaven. 

When the man breached back into your room that afternoon, you were weirdly shamed to feel your body tremble in response. As if the very being of another person could harm you, despite the way you tucked yourself away, and despite the fact that the man hadn’t so much as even asked you your name. He got his reward for his efforts, though. He hummed and sighed in relief, grabbing the plate and glass from the table, allowing you to continue hiding yourself away among the thick comforter. 

Silence.

You hated the feeling in your chest when he clicked the door shut. You hated feeling anything other than nothing. Most of all, you hated that when this all inevitably came crashing down, you’d have to suffer all over again.

At dinner, though you don’t eat the soup you’re offered, he tells you his name even when he knows you won’t offer yours. 

Piotr.

--

Little and timid as you were, you truly think you may have shocked him. 

On a random Tuesday morning almost three weeks after you’d arrived, Piotr meandered down the winding stairs to the main room dressed and ready to face the day. You heard him before you saw him as he worked his rounds, ensuring all is well and right before the day begins. It’s monotonous, habitual. The instinct of a true protector. 

The rounds stopped dead in their tracks when he spotted you. 

To be fair, you were equally as surprised you’d found the inner courage (or, perhaps, curiosity) to extend the confines of your world to the outside of the bedroom earlier that week. Comfortable as the bedroom was, and fearful as you may be, it began to feel like you were more rotting than living. Waiting for the worst to come was a given, but in the meantime, you could at the very least learn your environment. Get to know the laughter and the heavy footsteps that echoed throughout all hours of the day. Maybe even get to know a thing or two about the metal man- Piotr- and what he expected of you.

The change of scenery was just as much welcomed as it was frightening. One step after another, it felt like leaving your net, dragging your palm down the old-money walls as if they would keep you anchored. It had been hardly dark with lowly lit lamps guiding your way through the winding halls. Every step was careful. Every breath deliberate as you crept halfway down the stairs that seemed to go on forever. 

It was confusing, the effort put in to lull its inhabitants into a sense of safety. You expected to find something- anything- that would remind you to never let your guard down. A lab, something sterile and sharp, hell, there weren’t even any guards. Nothing but clean floors, expensive furniture, and art. 

You let your foot dangle off the last step of the stairway, toe grazing the main floor. 

That’s as far as you made it that night. 

Somewhere far deeper than you could see, an echo of a door opening, shutting, rattled the foundations of your bones and you on blind instinct alone tore all the way back to your room. You launched into bed and blankets became walls, a cocoon, a nest, like the mounting fabrics would protect you. You stayed there in your shaken apprehension for the rest of the day.

You tried again a few nights later, this time making it down to the very end of the stairwell. The carpet was warm against your toes, the rails cold against your fingers. It took a moment to pry yourself away from them, afloat without something to hang onto, but you did it. Padded down the long drawn carpet along the way, peeking around the bend of every corner like a prey-animal until you spotted what looked like some sort of living area. 

Familiar. Like something you’d seen a dream, maybe, or an old memory. Couches. A sturdy, dark table planted in the center. A window larger than life itself draped with thick curtains blocking out the night. You aren’t sure why it lured you in so wholly, but you found yourself perching upon the farthest couch, grazing your fingers along those softness of the drapes. 

In one swift move, you reeled a curtain back, and awed at the marvel of the clear sky. On the main floor the view was so entirely different- the moon in broad display, fireflies dancing at the edges of the window pane as if inviting you out to greet them. 

You had forgotten night could be so… Beautiful.

When you wandered back to your room that night, it had been entirely out of your choice. You watched the moon dance across the sky until it disappeared behind the mansion, the sun taking its throne in the open sky and dusting hot-ember red over the shimmering stars. When the birds began to sing, you finally peeled yourself from the couch, let the curtains fall back, and left as quietly as you’d came.

One morning you decided to give it some more time, to watch the world come to life. Deep red melted into baby blues. The trees shook to life, birds and bees gathered at the flowers sprouting from the stretches of well trimmed hedges. You even, despite your screaming judgement, stayed put as you heard heavy steps down the staircase. Of course you knew who it was. You knew him by sound alone. 

Piotr stopped in the archway of the entrance and watched you. You pretended not to notice him, letting your eyes follow clouds rolling past the stretch of sky offered through the window. When he did speak, it was quieter than you’d hear thus far.

“Good morning.” 

You glanced at him momentarily. An acknowledgement- one that you were sure he’d been waiting for. He took the opportunity and approached.

“It is good to see you out,” he started, both unsure and entirely pleased, trying to maintain whatever casualty he could clutch onto. “Breakfast will be ready soon. Try to eat some today. It is most important meal of day.”

Never had you thought kindness could be so disarming. Never had you thought something so gentle could come from something so… Giant. You told yourself you shouldn’t answer him, and a part of you knew he wasn’t expecting you to. But you nodded. Once. And he smiled, even when you wouldn’t meet his line of sight longer than a few seconds. Then he left you to it, let you linger as long as you wanted. 

You didn’t realize it, but watching him disappear around the bend, you started to think you could keep… Doing this. Staying here. 

You watched the clouds, and the breeze, and let life continue around you as mutants filled the halls and rooms. Eventually even filling the gaps of the couch while chatting amongst themselves. You only had to try a little to ignore the stares, the way they moved around you like you were glass. The way they scolded each other when someone grew too rowdy. It became the perfect backtrack as you decompressed, tried to feel like you were never this beaten, caged creature at all.

Morning became your favorite part of the day. Every morning after that, too, until before you knew it you had been living lavishly for an entire month. 

Awaiting breakfast turns into picking at lunch, into even allowing yourself to take up a space at the dinner table, keeping to yourself more often than not. Partly because you still couldn’t find it within yourself to truly trust these people. But mostly…. Mostly because surrounded by laughter and ceaseless conversations, you discovered just how fucking hard mingling is. The few times you allowed someone to draw you into any form of conversation, you floundered in the spotlight, unsure when you talk, when to shut your mouth. It was like you forgot how to be human at all. They gave you passes though, and much to your surprise, shrugged off your uncanny ability to shrink back into yourself. Almost like they understood. 

Your social skills had turned to dust long, long ago. Stripped bare along with the rest of whatever made you you as pure survival took over. Everything other than making it day by day felt pointless. Anything other than feeling cold, empty, nothing was just asking to hurt all over again. 

So while you were far better equipped to tune it all out, you were now stuck wondering just how to navigate this new cushy life. How to even begin to tell yourself that you were safe here, with them. That Piotr didn’t harbor an ulterior motive waiting to strike at any moment, like a snake hiding through brush, waiting for you to just take one wrong step. 

But yet, even despite that, strength grew within you, an indescribable feeling you weren't sure how to understand after so long. Trembles became stillness. The sound of Piotr’s voice found you perking from your bed and throwing your feet around the edge, skittering to the door to crack it open before he had the chance to knock. 

Today you are exactly where he expects you- curled up on the couch at the earliest strike of morning, waiting to see the magic of the day begin. Familiar, heavy steps thump through long winding hallways until they stop directly beside you. Craning your neck up, you offer a simple nod, goodmorning. 

Just like every other time you cower before him like a nervous, feral animal, guilt eats away at what’s becoming of your conscience. There was no reason for you to tense up like this, nor reason for your heart to race so suddenly in your ears. Beat, beat, beat, so quickly it floods your cheeks and your entire body with sticky, itchy heat. As if the man hadn’t quite literally plucked you from the pits of hell and planted you in what may as well be heaven. 

“How was your sleep?” The chair across from you groans as he sits down, unfolds a newspaper and leans back, casual as could be. 

All you offer in return is a shrug. It’s the only thing you can give him, even though you’re starting to wish you could give him much more. Settling your chin against your knees, you watch his gaze flit between you and the paper unfurled in his lap. Then you peer outside, watch the ways cut through the trees. 

Maybe he senses the longing of your stare. Or maybe he finds it’s about time you get some real fresh air, because he re-folds his morning paper and sets it on the coffee table before leaning forward. 

“Would you like to go outside?” He suddenly asks. When your brows knit together, eyeing him skeptically, that expression of his doesn’t falter. If anything grows softer, genuine. So sincere you wonder if he was even capable of violence at all. “Yes?”

Go outside. God, you can’t remember the last time you felt grass. Or a breeze over your skin that didn't come from factorial vents. Real sunlight unfiltered through thick, spotless glass. You swallow once, open your mouth, clamp it back shut. 

When you nod, yes, his lips hook upwards into a smile. Despite the monstrous size of him, it was growing harder to not feel pacified by his presence. He took great care of his impression, somehow always making himself seem smaller than he was. Slowly, his hand outstretches towards you, left lingering for far too long to be comfortable whilst you stare at the open palm. 

Would he really just let you out like that? Open those broad, heavy doors and let you flee out into the day? Maybe this was the trick. Maybe this was the moment, the single defining moment where you were sorely reminded of your place in this world. But he nudges his hand towards you again and stands effortlessly still. Either gauging, or hoping, or something worse, you weren't sure. 

But he looks honest. And his voice is smooth, and low, when he says, “I will help you.”

Everything you’ve ever learned has taught you to run. Apprehension that’s grown dormant by the day stirs and wakes in your belly. Something among it though- something else entirely. Foreign and intrusive, a strange draw, or urge, to trust this man. For a moment you dissect the feeling. You realize that it’s almost like hope. 

Real hope. The kind that makes you want to believe him. It tells you in coos that you should reach out, take his hand. Choose to let him help you just this one time. You owed him that. 

So, with a shake to the very bones, you drop your hand in his palm. Broad fingers curl in and cover yours entirely, then gently, like you may break if he pulled too hard, tugs you to your feet. Nerve wracking would be an understatement as you stood toe to toe with him, having to step back just to get a good look at his face. 

You’ve never been this close to him. You’ve certainly never touched him. His hands feel just as cold as they looked, but they are merciful. They are more human than anything you’ve ever felt. Piotr doesn’t push it further than that, and lets you go, takes a step back to create comfortable space between your bodies. 

“Come.” He says. “Follow me.”

You do. You follow close enough to be his shadow, heart rising in your throat, both in fear and anticipation. Outside air, hearing birds sing, you could remember it all so faintly, replaced by endless memories of dark, cold, corners. Even the idea alone of experiencing such perfect novelties felt far away then, but here you were, watching him reach for the massive brass knobs. 

It almost feels like you’re dreaming. Especially so when Piotr pulls the doors open and suddenly the span of your vision is flooded with pure light. Warm wind brushes against your skin, ruffles through your hair. Though you squint as you step out, the moment you're outside bare footed and all, it’s like a new world entirely. Your brain short circuits, your mind blanks, all else gone as you suck in lungfulls of clean, crisp air for what feels like the first time. 

Blue sky, the same heavy, draped clouds you’d been watching through the window. The hedges create a maze-like design, visited by the birds and the butterflies you’ve come to know. It’s more than you thought you deserved. Miles above anything you thought you’d ever have again, the simplicity of nature. For the first time in years, you think you could cry. 

Oh, look at that, you are crying. Tears are biting at the waterlines of your eyes and you blink them away, cursing the fact that your view of the front yard is now obscured with a film of misty blur. You strain through the fog to watch the grass sway, the sun paint the old bricks of the mansion in beautiful gold. It’s so all-consuming that you nearly forget Piotr is there at all until he speaks again. 

“It is beautiful day.”

You don’t realize that this is the first time you hadn’t twitched at the sound of his voice, or hid away from his side. Everything loosens at once, your lungs full, your face warmed by the early sun. You don’t even realize that you’re smiling, but Piotr does. 

“How does it feel?” He asks, watching you all but melt into a puddle right there on the front steps. 

You breathe in once, twice, slow, like every inhale could be your last. 

You pull your coat tighter as you step outside; the sky is heavy and gray, the air sharp with cold, and white flakes blanket the ground.

It usually snowed much sooner than this, but nonetheless, you were overjoyed at the first snow of the year.

You laugh softly, breath fogging in front of you, and step farther onto the lawn. You spin in slow circles, arms wide, face tilted skyward.

You haven’t played in the snow like this since you were a child.

Inside, Piotr Rasputin, the mountain of a man you have been pining for, pauses mid-step.

He had been heading to his room with a mug of tea, intent on finishing a sketch before dinner, when movement outside the kitchen window catches his eye.

You.

His chest grows warm at the sight.

He watches as you bend to scoop snow into your gloved hands, as you toss it into the air and laugh when it falls back down around you. There is something so unguarded about the way you move, something tender and joyful that settles deep in his chest.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his face begins to ache from it.

Without quite deciding to, Colossus sets the mug aside, pulls on his coat, and steps out into the cold.

You hear the door behind you and turn around. You brighten instantly when you see him.

“Piotr!” you call, waving. “Look! It’s finally snowing.”

“As if I could miss it,” he says gently, his accent soft yet thick. “You look very happy.”

“I am,” you admit, smiling. “It feels like the world is holding its breath, you know? Its quiet; peaceful even.”

He nods. “Da.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. Snow drifts between you, settling on your shoulders and your hair. The silence wasn’t awkward per se, but rather it was full of all the things waiting to be said.

You break the silence first, scooping snow and lobbing it lightly in his direction. It bounces harmlessly off his coat.

He blinks. Then—slowly—smiles.

“Oh,” he says. “It is like this?”

His return throw is meant to be gentle. Playful. Careful.

It is not.

The snowball arcs just a little too fast, just a little too straight—

Thwap!

It hits you square in the cheek.

You gasp more in shock than pain, stumbling back half a step as cold explodes across your face.

Piotr freezes.

“Oh—oh no. No, no, no—” He’s across the distance between you in an instant, panic written all over his face. “I am so sorry. I did not mean—are you hurt? I swear I was not aiming for—”

“I’m okay,” you laugh breathlessly, though your eyes are wide. “Piotr, I promise-” But he’s already cupping your face, brushing snow from your hair, your cheek, your eyelashes with frantic gentleness.

“I am idiot,” he murmurs. “I should have been more careful. Please forgive me.” He says and pulls you into his chest without thinking. His arms wrap around you like he needs to anchor you there.

His coat is warm and smells like the cologne he was wearing.

His broad chest is quite solid; you can feel his muscles even through his coat.

“I really am okay,” you say softly, pulling back enough to gaze up at him, your hands coming up to rest against him. “It just surprised me.”

He exhales shakily, his arms still holding you tightly. “I would never wish to hurt you.”

“I know.” You say, your voice going quiet.

The world seems to narrow to the space between your breaths. Snow falls around you, quiet and perfect, clinging to his lashes again, to your coats, to the moment.

For a second, he just looks at you—like he’s memorizing your face.

His eyes dart from yours to your lips, then back again.

Your heart stutters.

Then, slowly, reverently, Piotr leans in.

The kiss is soft. Careful. Almost hesitant at first, like he’s afraid the moment might break if he presses too hard. Snow melts against your skin as his lips warm yours, the world hushed and glowing around you.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I know we are colleagues,” he continues, voice low and careful. “And..i do not want to mess up our friendship, but I have felt this for some time, and I do not wish to carry it alone anymore.”

Your hands tighten in his coat.

“I care for you,” he says. “Very deeply.”

You smile that wide, dorky smile Piotr has grown to love.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to say that” You admit, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes widen. “Truly?”

“I kept telling myself you were just kind. That I was imagining it.” You smile softly. “But I care about you too.”

And with that, Colossus captures your lips in another kiss. This one is more intense and passionate than the last, but it’s also slow and consuming- like he’s allowing himself something that he’s thought about for months.

His large hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his palm is warm against your cheek. He deepens the kiss just enough to steal your breath.

Your knees go weak, and you grab onto his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you from melting into a puddle.

He finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath fogging the cold air between you, eyes soft and earnest in a way that makes your chest ache. His forehead rests against yours, the warmth of him is unmistakable; its steady and certain. One of his hands slides up your back, slow and protective, holding you as if the world might try to take you away if he doesn’t.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. There’s no need to. The snow continues to fall around you, blanketing the ground in quiet, the mansion looming behind you like a distant memory. Right here, right now, it’s just the two of you—heartbeats syncing, breaths evening out.

He presses a final kiss to your lips, gentler this time, lingering like a vow rather than a question. When he rests his chin atop your head, arms wrapping fully around you, it feels like coming home.

And as you stand there together—wrapped in silence, snowfall, and something finally, undeniably real.

Somewhere inside, the mansion creaks quietly—but out here, beneath the falling snow, it feels like the ending of a movie where everything is exactly as it should be.